


Resigned, Though Not to Fate

by inkfingers_mcgee



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Domestic, Fix-It of Sorts, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Slow Burn, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Trans Martin Blackwood, the inherent romance of removing your crush’s eyes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 74,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28547274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkfingers_mcgee/pseuds/inkfingers_mcgee
Summary: And suddenly Martin can feel his tongue, and sense each swell of his lungs. He realises how sore his neck and lower back are after months of hunching over a computer. The suit jacket he wears, has worn every day for weeks, is too tight on his upper arms.Oh, god. He is in a room with Jonathan Sims.“You’re really suggesting this,” Martin says, voice pulled thin.“Yes.” Jon does not hesitate.“You would- actually do it?”“I would.”“Why?”Because love is blind, says something cliché and cruel in the pit of his gut. Christ, he never was much of a poet, was he?Or,When Jon asks Martin to Quit the Archives with him, Martin says yes. In the Scottish Highlands, they hurt, and they heal.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 99
Kudos: 187





	1. even given what i am

**Author's Note:**

> Picks up immediately following Jon and Martin’s conversation at the end of MAG 154
> 
> frankly canon is perfect and this scene played out exactly the way it should have, but my melodramatic gay brain wants this so here it is
> 
> TW: This work will include mentions of heavy themes such as self-harm, as well as graphic depictions of violence. Detailed TWs will be included with each chapter. Please take care of yourself!  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: dissociation, mention of suicidal ideation  
> (please visit end notes for more details)

“I would do it, you know.”

Martin’s head snaps up. Jon has reappeared in the doorway, arms branched stiffly from his sides like he meant to grab the jamb, perhaps to steady himself. He looks like he might collapse. Every lick of his energy seems gathered in his eyes; the weight of his Stare sparks something in Martin, an instinct so base that he needs everything he has to resist his flight response. He doesn’t know why he fights the impulse to tip sidelong into Loneliness. He would stop existing entirely, to get away from that Stare.

“Jon,” he sighs, turning his eyes to his keyboard. “Please.”

Oxfords tap the office floor, measured and fierce. Jon has always walked loudly, for such a small person. He speaks through his teeth. “I just- you should know. I-I don’t think of you as- I didn’t come here for an _out_. You’re not an excuse, Martin.”

Martin watches those scarred fists tremble, and remembers distantly that once he would have longed to soothe those hands open with his, to run his fingers over the palms, maybe follow them with the press of lips to lifeline. What futile thing he was.

“Why are you still here, Jon?”

“I-I don’t- I don’t know.”

Martin huffs, sharp. “Don’t you know everything, these days?”

“No.” Jon says it with such humiliating, ridiculous conviction that Martin has to look up, his breath caught on the temptation of an honest-to-god laugh. It shrivels quickly. He slides his keyboard away and plants his elbows on his desk, then drops his face into his hands.

“God, Jon. Why can’t you just-?” _-give up on me. Just give up on me. I have. It’s not hard._

“You had years,” Martin says instead, voice thinning as it heightens. “ _Years_ , Jon- and now? _Now?_ Christ.”

When no reply comes, Martin drops his hands. Jon meets his eyes, then sighs so deeply that his chest sinks with it. He’s scarecrow-brittle, and Martin wants to turn away from him again. He finds it difficult, and can’t summon the effort.

“I wasn’t-“ Jon’s jaw clicks shut, and a cold determination flattens his features. “I’m not asking anything of you, Martin-”

“Not _asking-!_ ”

“Alright, I am, of course I am,” Jon snaps, “but I’m- god, Martin. This isn’t- even if we don’t, i-if you don’t want to, that’s- it’s very understandable, but I- I— I can’t-” he pulls a deep breath and closes his eyes. Then they open onto Martin, terrible yawning things that flay him open, threaten to drink deeply from the most private well of his person. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

Martin laughs. It’s a hollow sound, and it makes Jon‘s shoulders tense toward his ears. Good.

“Hasn’t bothered you so far.”

“You wanted it.”

“When have you ever noticed what I wanted?”

Jon’s face twists at that, and a stab of vindication lances through Martin’s stomach. It’s so sudden, so hot, that his entrails flinch around it, his abdominals clenching.

And suddenly he can feel his tongue, and sense each swell of his lungs. He realises how sore his neck and lower back are after months of hunching over a computer. The suit jacket he wears, has worn every day for weeks, is too tight on his upper arms.

Oh, god. He is in a room with Jonathan Sims.

“You’re really suggesting this,” Martin says, voice pulled thin.

“Yes.” Jon does not hesitate.

“You would- actually do it?”

“I would.”

“Why?”

 _Because love is blind_ , says something cliché and cruel in the pit of his gut. Christ, he never was much of a poet, was he?

“I think you know why,” Jon says.

And that’s just like him, isn’t it, to be infuriating even at the height of his vulnerability. It makes Martin aware of his limbs, of a distant flickering impulse to hold something in his arms.

“How would we even do it?” he whispers, unsure whether he wants the answer.

Jon lurches forward and makes an aborted motion to grab at Martin’s desk. His eyebrows pinch desperately upward, igniting a flourish of frown lines far too deep for a man his age.

“We would. We’ll just- we would.”

Martin laughs. It’s cruel, but it’s real. It hurts. “God, Jon.” He tastes blood. Laughs again, tastes more. “You haven’t changed at all.”

Jon smiles at him, strangled but sincere, and oh, the surge of adrenaline through Martin’s chest has a name, and it is anger. Martin wants to grab Jon by the shoulders and _shake_. He leans into the feeling, because it is happening. This is happening.

He could touch Jon from here, could hold him or hurt him if he just reached out. He doesn’t.

“Martin, I- I _have_ changed,” says Jon softly, lashes shuddering over a downward glance. “Significantly. Dangerously.”

Martin swallows. He can’t remember the last time he did that consciously. “Yeah.”

“But you would-” Jon looks up again with those eyes, those eyes that Martin thinks he might actually hate in this moment, “-could you come with me, even given what I am?”

There’s that sharp laugh again. Martin slips into it with ease, familiar with the shape of his own bitterness. “Jon, that is- it’s hardly even a concern.”

Jon’s eyebrows do that desperate thing again. “It-it’s not?”

“It’s not. This isn’t about you.” Is that true? He can’t keep track anymore. “I don’t even know if I still exist in any way that matters.”

Martin spreads his hands, looks at them. His skin is pale enough to bare the bruised blue of his veins, his freckles hardly a suggestion. His nails are a sheer, naked pink. He doesn’t remember removing his last coat of nail polish, but he must have.

And then. Then.

Jon’s hands touch him long before he feels them. The impulse to pull away dies in his shoulders, a flinch that wracks his upper back and jerks his neck straight. All he can do is watch, mouth dry, as narrow, knobbed fingers ease between his thick ones, as thumbs settle over his knuckles, as pressure pushes against his palms. The warmth comes last, a slow build that crawls over Martin’s skin, stirring everywhere that Jon’s hands touch his.

Jon is here. He’s here.

Martin looks up. Jon gazes upon him, a force of nature and yet a meagre man, cheeks hollow and eyes bagged, hair limp against his shoulders and much greyer than Martin remembers. An overlarge jumper sags, lopsided, over one sunken collarbone, and Martin recognises it as his own: a green, cabled thing that he thought he lost. He’s lost most everything, hasn’t he? And yet, here it is.

Jon gasps and pulls his hands back. “Martin, you’re—”

“Oh,” Martin whispers. He touches his fingertips to his septum, and they come away bloody. The red looks obscene against the blanch of him, violent and far too alive. “Yeah.”

This isn’t safe. It isn’t safe for Jon, or for Basira or Daisy or Melanie, and especially not for Martin. His eyes unfocus, and he lets the cold hush through each throbbing point of him. Fog eases about his ankles, behind his glasses. This will be easier. It has to be. He’s so goddamn tired.

“Just leave, Jon,” he murmurs. He closes his eyes, and hears waves crash on a distant shore.

“ _ **Martin!**_ ”

Jon’s voice rips through him. Every nerve bursts with it: skin and muscle and bone and viscera. Each hair stands on end. His eyelids tear back beneath the flood of force. Jon’s presence fills the room, his hair twisting about his face, his eyes a colour that Martin does not know the name of.

Martin is Seen, completely, devastatingly.

“Please,” he hears himself sob. Tears peel in hot, horizontal stripes back toward his ears. “Jon-”

“ _I know_ ,” Jon whispers, a thundercrack down Martin’s sternum. He plucks away Martin’s glasses, then his hands sink into the softness of Martin’s cheeks. He thumbs the tears from his lashes. He bends over Martin’s shaking body, and presses his mouth and nose into his hair.

“I know.” The whisper is soft, this time, hardly more than a breath across Martin’s crown. Sharp arms, blunted by baggy sleeves, wrap around his head and shoulders. They squeeze, and Martin whimpers. Jon sighs a tight, broken sound. “I know.”

Martin clutches Jon’s elbow, harder than he means to. He doesn’t let go, even when Jon sucks a breath through his teeth.

He’s here. Jon’s here.

“It hurts,” Martin gasps.

Jon makes a small, aching noise. Then,

“ _Do you want me to let you go?_ ”

Static prickles through the base of Martin’s skull. It tingles along the edges of his tongue as he tries to form the word ‘yes,’ then it floods his mouth and buzzes into the roots of his teeth, and he gasps, “No!” His hand cramps around Jon’s elbow. “No! Don’t- I’ll- I’ll go again, Jon, I don’t know if I can come back- please don’t- I can’t-”

“I won’t. I won’t.” Jon curls closer to him, squeezing in tight, nails in Martin’s scalp, jaw jutting against his forehead. “I’m here. I’m right here. You’re here, I-I have you.”

“I’m here,” Martin repeats, and it frightens him. God, it frightens him. Should fear feel like home? “You’re here.”

He does not know how long Jon holds him. Jon’s arms compress him until his shoulders ache, until pain blooms between his temples. He tries not to feel it, at first. But eventually the throbbing won’t be ignored, and he has to experience his skull, and then his body with it: the weight of it, the sore joints, the effort of heaving in breaths that don’t quite make it to the bottom of his lungs.

Eventually Jon drags Martin, rolling chair and all, closer to the desk to sit himself on it. His legs give out as he settles, and he breathes a bitten-off groan into Martin’s hair. Martin leans further into him, relishing the sting of the desk’s edge pressing into the sensitive flesh just below his ribs. His head rests on Jon’s chest, cheek to the rabbit pace of his heart. He dreamed of this, once: being this close to Jon, these arms around him, this body pressed close. It should make him happy, he thinks. But he is not happy. He is limp, and he is tired, and he is fuzzy with adrenaline, and he is—

He… is.

“I think…” the words barely make it past his lips. He swallows, tries again. “I think… you can let go.”

Jon hesitates. His fingers flutter over the back of Martin’s neck.

“Jon,” Martin whispers.

“R-right.” Jon gives him a last, aching squeeze, then draws away. The moment the pressure lifts, Martin begins to shake. His hand remains locked around Jon’s elbow, and he knows that he’s probably bruising him, but he can’t make himself let go.

“Okay,” he breathes, tremulous.

“Okay?”

“Y-yeah.” He nods, and despite his best efforts, despite the cold kiss of Loneliness on the back of his neck, despite the hell of this past year, he looks at Jonathan Sims, and he trusts him. “Let’s do it. Let’s - let’s quit.”

* * *

_Dear Jon,_ Martin typed. He frowned, and pecked the backspace.

 _Dear Elias_... No. Worse.

_To Whom It May Concern-_

“God,” Martin mumbled, and held the backspace until the screen went blank.

He could circle back to that. The important part was the body. He sat up straight, drew a deep breath, and huffed it out. He could do this.

 _I regret to inform you that I am resigning from my position as_ \- no. Too cold. He wanted to explain, at least. He backspaced.

 _Due to family issues-_ ugh, god, no. He couldn’t use his mum as an excuse, even if he still felt raw from getting her moved, still sometimes lost hours to calls made about her finances. Backspace.

 _Given the pattern of danger-_ it was reasonable, but it didn’t- feel right? Back.

 _I’m so sorry, Jon, but-_ back back back.

Martin slapped his hands on the edge of his desk and pushed away, sending his chair rolling a few feet deeper into the empty archive. As his momentum slowed, he tipped his head over the back and sighed. The ceiling yawned above him, ridiculously high for a basement, in his opinion. With most of the overhead lights off, shadows draped through the exposed beams, turning the bare-bones architecture into geometric gradients in monochrome.

“This is stupid,” he said to the ceiling. “I can just- tell him to his face. He’s a room away. Just- go over, knock, and say it. Say it. Say ‘I qu’— hm.” His throat went tight, and his heart picked up. The sweat would follow any minute.

“Okay. That’s alright. It makes sense to be anxious.” He nodded along with his own affirmation, as if to trick himself into thinking he took any comfort from it. “He’s- plenty intimidating, isn’t he? But he’s just a person, not- heh- not a-a human worm farm, so.” He laughed thinly. “So you can handle it, right? Right. Okay.”

Despite the pep-talk (one of his better ones, incidentally), Martin still sat for a moment with his hands clenched into his jeans, doing his breaths. Five seconds in, eight seconds out, right? Or was it seven and eleven? No, he’d remember if it rhymed.

“Okay,” he said, and clapped his hands resolutely to his thighs. “Here goes.”

He made it to Jon’s office door without incident. Mouth pinched with determination, he knocked. There was no answer. That was usual enough. The first knock rarely yielded anything, so he tried a second without giving it much thought, adding a soft, “Jon?”

As the silence stretched, his stomach soured in a way he was becoming all too familiar with. He’d been anxious his whole life and had learned to live with it, but this new fear—terror was probably the word—felt like it might eat him alive. He tried to keep his head, to knock again and wait like a professional, but then he began to shift on his feet and hear the squelch of worms, and—

He opened the door to soft snoring.

Jon was folded into the antique leather chair in front of his desk. His legs hooked at the knee over one arm, and his head lolled at a truly appalling angle against the other. Martin winced in sympathy and stepped forward to wake him, then stopped as he considered the consequences. Jon would… probably snap at him. And it wasn’t like he could wake his boss from what looked like a dead sleep and say, ‘Hey, I’m quitting, actually!’ so it would be just as well to leave. Still, Martin would want someone to intervene if they saw him destroying his own alignment like that. ...And Jon would probably be a demon tomorrow if he slept poorly and woke up in pain.

With a sigh, Martin chose the lesser of the evils.

“Jon?” He leaned, tentative, over the back of the chair. A wrinkle slipped across Jon’s brow, and his lips parted, but he simply shifted and settled again. Martin’s heart threatened to choke him, it sat so high in his throat.

When Tim had claimed over a shared lunch that Jon was under thirty, Martin hadn’t believed it. But he could see it now. Maybe it was his expressions that aged him, or the way the shadow of his glasses emphasised the bags under his eyes. With his face bare and reposed, Jon looked… god, he looked like someone whose cheek belonged in the palm of Martin’s hand.

Oh. Oh, god, that was- hm. He pushed it away and reminded himself of the task at hand.

“Jon?” he whispered. No response. Slowly, carefully, Martin brushed his fingers over Jon’s shoulder. “J-”

Jon jerked upright and shouted. His hands darted out, slapping at his body and the chair beneath him, and Martin knew the desperation in his wildly searching eyes, because he’d been waking up the same way for over a month now.

“Jon! Jon, it’s okay, it’s okay-”

Jon’s head snapped up, pupils shrunken in the brown depths of his eyes, clearly just noticing Martin’s presence. He whiteknuckled the back of the chair, blunt nails squeaking into the ancient leather.

“Martin? What’s— is it the worms? Is Prentiss-?”

“No, no, everything’s okay!” Martin realised he was gesturing as if to a frightened animal, and lowered his hands. He began to wring them, thumb pushing hard against his palm. “Sorry, I’m sorry. You looked- that’s a bad place to fall asleep.”

Slowly, Jon looked down at the chair under him, which he now slumped in diagonally, one leg still over the armrest and the other akimbo on the floor. His brow furrowed, and then he sighed.

“Yes, I… suppose you’re right. What time is it?”

Martin managed not to balk at the utterly decent response. That would probably be rude. “Ah. Half nine?”

“Mm.” Jon swung around to right himself in the chair and took his glasses from the desk. He let them dangle from his fingertips for a moment, and brought his other hand to massage around the orbits of his eyes, grimacing. When finally he glanced up at Martin through his reapplied specs, he seemed… off.

“Jon? Um-” Martin drew a breath for courage, “is everything alright?”

He fully expected to be snapped at, but Jon surprised him by sighing and replying almost immediately:

“The Prentiss statement.” He gestured to his desk, as if Martin was supposed to identify the statement in the sea of papers. “I recorded it earlier. I don’t know, it…” his mouth opened and closed for a moment, “i-i-it was... Challenging.”

“Oh. All the, ah, worms?”

Jon huffed, and it took Martin altogether too long to identify what he’d just seen as a laugh, and a flash of a sardonic smile.

“Yes,” Jon murmured. “ _Worms_.” He frowned into the middle distance for a moment, then looked back at Martin. “Did you need something?”

“Oh! No- not - I didn’t, I just thought you should sleep somewhere better?”

“I’m not going home now,” Jon snapped (there it was).

“No, I- the couch, I meant? In the break room? I’d offer your cot back, but-”

Jon huffed a clipped, dry laugh, and Martin thought for the moment that his heart might stop.

“But the couch is far more suited to someone my size,” Jon sighed. “Yes. Yes, fine.” He glanced up, and Martin watched the youth ebb from his face as his brows drew in. He frowned, ending this moment, whatever it had been.

“Good _night_ , Martin.”

Martin nodded. “Erm- yeah. Goodnight, Jon.” He turned to go, and noted that he had relaxed beneath the familiarity of brusque words. He couldn’t even make himself upset about it, just felt a weight shaped awfully like shame settle into his gut.

“And-” Jon said, strained, soft, “thank you.”

Martin stopped, hand on the doorknob. Those two words filled the space between his ears, dripped honey-thick into his chest, and filled that space too. His eyes stung, which- Christ.

“S-sure, Jon.” He didn’t look back as he shut the door.

Head hung, Martin trudged to his computer to shut it down. A dialogue box appeared, asking if he was sure he would like to leave his document without saving. He stared at the message for a moment, then clicked cancel. He opened the file viewer, found the document in its folder. Right click, drop-down menu, left click.

_Are you sure you would like to delete Letter of Resignation.doc?_

“I’m sure,” he sighed. God help him, but he was sure.

* * *

“I’m not sure about this,” Martin says.

He stumbles after Jon, whose palm is a live coal against his. He doesn’t know when his grip slipped down from Jon’s elbow or when their fingers laced together, only that if he lets go, he will be no more. The early September breeze tears at his edges, cooler than it has a right to be. Hungry. The only difference between Martin and a cold spot on the London pavement is Jon’s hand in his.

Jon does not slow, but Martin can just see the edge of his mouth twist. “I won’t force you to go through with it.” It’s his Boss Voice, sharp and deliberately aloof.

Martin rolls his eyes. “Not that. I meant- didn’t that feel too easy?”

This time Jon looks fully back, face open with incredulity. “Easy!”

A muscle twitches in Martin’s cheek. Maybe he can smile at Jon again, one day. “Getting out of The Magnus Institute. I thought Peter would Vanish us, for sure. Or you’d drop dead when we crossed the front door.”

Jon laughs. It’s brief and brittle, but it happens, it definitely happens. Martin almost stumbles.

“Could still do.” Jon’s hand tightens in Martin’s, deceptively strong. It hurts, in a way that he needs at that moment. “We might die, Martin.”

“Mm. I know.”

“Do you want to?”

“Do I- want to die?”

Jon’s voice thickens. “Yes.”

“I-” Martin falters. He allows their footsteps to steady him for a moment, his heavy loafers a bass line to the tap of Jon’s dirt-clouded Oxfords.

“I don’t think so,” he says, finally. “But I’m ready, if it happens. It’s felt a bit inevitable for a while, you know?”

Jon stops, and Martin has to sidestep to avoid tripping over him. Jon spins to face him and pulls their linked hands to his chest, wraps his burned one around them.

“I will do everything in my power,” he says with the weight of an oath, “to keep you living.”

A shudder rolls through Martin. He is aware, again, of his entire body. Fatigue threads through his calves and pulses in his thighs. He stands on a sidewalk in Barking, with his hand clutched in two smaller ones, and looks down at the man that he—

Oh. He still does, doesn’t he?

How had he forgotten?

Martin swallows. “Um. Where was it, that Basira wanted to meet?”

For a moment, Jon just bathes him in that agonising Stare. Then he blinks, and turns to take them on their way. “Not far. Some pub Daisy likes. Never been, myself. It’s a shithole.”

“Ah.” Martin’s brow furrows. “Do you just… _Know_ that?”

Jon tosses a brief, soft smile Martin’s way. “I just know Daisy.”

The pub is, indeed, a shithole. Jon shoulders with a grimace through the alley-only entry, as if a grimy crash bar even ranks in the unpleasantries of their lives. Though, come to think of it, this would be a prime nest for the Corruption. Martin resolves not to touch anything.

Smoke blurs the rough details of the pub’s interior (an atmosphere that puts Martin perhaps a bit too much at ease), but it is easy enough to spot their colleagues. Basira and Daisy share a booth and a sceptical expression. Melanie sits opposite them, frowning at the label on her beer as she picks at it with a black fingernail.

“Thank you all for coming.” Jon stops at the head of the table, posture oddly hesitant. All three women turn to him with varying levels of wariness.

Melanie huffs, and Martin is struck by how small she looks, her shoulders drooped inward and keen eyes heavy-lidded. “Hard not to, when you say it’s life and death.”

“Isn’t everything,” Basira sighs. Then her brow crinkles, and her eyes slide, with some apparent effort, onto Martin. “Oh. Martin? Did you-?”

“Where did you come from?” Melanie sits up straight, eyes wide.

Daisy leans back slightly, brow knitting. “Decided to show up?” Then her eyes, a shade too close to yellow, drop to Martin’s hand in Jon’s. She looks meaningfully back up at Jon, but he just runs a thumb over Martin’s knuckles and ignores her.

“I have something very important to tell you,” he says, “about the Archive’s quitting policy.”

Martin takes the empty seat next to Melanie, and Jon grabs a nearby barstool to perch himself at the end of the table. It puts him above the rest of them, and he hangs there ominous and gargoylesque as he explains. He goes into a bit more detail than he had with Martin, touching on Eric Delano and Gertrude’s discussion, the significance of eyes and the mention of Elias. He gestures as he speaks, sometimes pulling Martin’s hand up with him when he becomes agitated, but never letting go. For a moment, he hesitates over stating the explicit particulars of the quitting ritual, surely knowing that everyone at the table has figured it out for themselves, but then he takes a deep breath and says, “So. The only way to escape the Watcher is to become completely blind.”

And so ends the world’s worst HR briefing. Melanie flops against the booth with a squeak of plastic, puffing a big sigh through her cheeks. A slight frown sits on Daisy’s thin lips, her eyes fixed on Jon. Basira has a distant, resigned look that Martin reads as, _Sure. This might as well happen._

“I… take it that you’re quitting,” Basira says after a moment, turning to Jon.

He nods. “I… yes. Yes, I am.”

“And you?”

“Me?” Martin asks, having thoroughly forgotten he was a person who could be addressed. Basira nods, and he clears his throat. “Um- yes. Yeah.”

Daisy draws up straight, regarding Martin with just a bit too narrow a slice to her pupils. “Just like that? Thought you had big plans, with Lukas.”

Now everyone at the table looks at Martin, and oh, he does not like that. He breathes in deeply, and winces as he feels it catch in his throat.

“I- um, I did.” He looks at Jon, and finds that he greatly prefers the weight of that gaze to the others. “I… was sticking it out, mostly. To keep an eye on him, see what would happen.” The comfort of Jon’s stare diminishes quickly, and Martin has to look down. He rubs at the back of his neck with his free hand. “I dunno, it’s- maybe I should have stayed.”

“No,” Jon says, simple, final.

Martin laughs brokenly, because he does not know what to do with the huge, warm feeling uncurling against the cold-brittle cage of his ribs.

“So what _was_ this mysterious plan?” Melanie asks.

Basira leans forward. “He wasn’t trying to get you to do a ritual…” Graciously, the _Was he?_ implied by her tone remains unspoken.

“No,” Martin sighs. “No- I don’t think so, at least? There’s this - Peter thinks another power is emerging. The Extinction. Fear of change, apocalypse, obsolescence. All that.”

“All that,” Melanie repeats.

“Yeah. He said… he was trying to convince me that there was a way to stop it emerging. But he kept saying _I_ had to be the one to do it. And- well, come on.” He scoffs and gestures to himself. Jon makes a small noise and squeezes his hand.

“Martin-”

“I just mean- I know what manipulation sounds like, okay? If he just needed someone touched by Beholding and the Lonely, that would be one thing, but he kept saying it had to be me. I mean, a- a powerful entity with a mission of world-saving proportions comes to me for help right when I happen to find myself purposeless and- unneeded?” He sighs, scuffs his shoe against the tacky floor. “I’m not _stupid_.”

He feels Jon’s gaze against the side of his face, and struggles under it. Jon’s free hand lands lightly on the shoulder of his uncomfortable suit jacket. He shrugs it off. A small intake of breath next to him, then Jon begins to untangle their long-held hands. Martin tenses his grip.

_Don’t go._

He can feel Jon blink. After a moment, Jon presses his hand back in, tighter than before.

 _I won’t_.

In the quiet, Melanie picks up her beer and clicks the rim against her lower teeth, a jarring tap-tap-tap of glass on enamel. “So… _is_ the Extinction real?” she asks after a moment.

“I think so.” Martin chooses a grain of the table and follows it with his eyes, then stops when the swirl of the wood begins to look too much like a spiral. “I’ve… read a lot of statements about it. Could be a combination of other fears, maybe, but it’s pretty distinct.”

“Don’t suppose he told you how he planned to stop it,” Basira says flatly.

Martin sighs. “No. He was damn cagey about that.”

“I doubt it can be stopped.” They all turn to Jon. He watches a point above Daisy and Basira’s heads, pupils overlarge. “The size of a Fear, it’s... Sisyphus could never stop the boulder as it fell, let alone unmake it with his bare hands.”

Basira crosses her arms. “So. We’re admitting that stopping these rituals is just- endless, thankless work?”

Jon’s eyes refocus, and he turns them on Basira. “Did I say that?”

“You did,” Melanie mutters, an echo into her empty bottle, “in the most pretentious way possible.”

Abruptly, Daisy sits forward and leans into her elbows against the table. Directly beneath the overhead lamp, her lean muscles cast stark shadows down her thin limbs, and her skull-short red hair catches an ever so slight halo. Martin is struck, for the first time, by how much smaller she is than Basira. It always felt the other way around.

“So we can’t do anything about that,” Daisy says, with her usual assurance, but without the harshness Martin has come to expect. “Next topic, then. Who’s planning to gouge out their eyes?”

That sends a hush over them.

“Us, obviously,” Martin says, because he has to learn to fight the quiet sometime. He glances up to find Jon watching him, the lines of his face softened by something Martin can’t quite place.

“Yes,” Jon murmurs, “us.”

“Precious,” Daisy mutters. Basira snorts.

Melanie shakes her head and spins her bottle between the table and her pointer finger. “It’s… not really the kind of decision you can make quickly, is it?” she murmurs. “Unless you’re Jonathan Act-First-Think-Later Sims.”

“Wha-!” Jon sits up straight on his stool, sputtering. “I am- I do a _lot_ of planning, I’ll have you know-”

“And how long did you take between learning this information and making your decision?”

Jon sits back, bites his lips into his mouth. “Mm.” He clears his throat. “That- is hardly relevant.”

“Did you even think about where you’re going to go?” Basira asks, her eyebrows arching into their full, sculpted shape. “You’re not planning to just render yourself effectively defenceless and then sit like a duck in London.” _Are you?_

“Ah,” says Jon.

Melanie laughs, high and a bit cruel. Martin can’t blame her.

“She has a point, Jon,” he murmurs. “If- maybe we should take a bit. Plan some?”

Jon’s right leg begins to bounce, his heel hooked on the highest rung of the stool. “No- damn. Damn, we- we can’t. Damn! As soon as we left the Institute- it’s a ticking clock. Peter will take you if we go back. But if we’re gone for- what, a-a-a-a few weeks?- the Eye will start draining us. No, _shit_ , I started our clock the moment I dragged you out of there.”

“You didn’t drag me,” Martian says faintly, unsure whether he’s defending his own agency or trying to soothe Jon’s agitation. He can multitask, he supposes.

“Sims.” Daisy’s voice is soft, firm. Jon goes absolutely still in a way Martin hasn’t seen much, just suddenly relinquishing his nervous energy—all at the touch of Daisy’s hand on his knee. She looks up at him with a calmness that would register as a predator putting its prey at ease, if not for the ever so slight smirk cut at the corner of her lips.

“Daisy,” Jon says, weary.

She draws her hand away and sits back in the booth. “I have a house. Up north. Middle of nowhere, well-stocked, stash of weapons if you need ‘em. I can get you the keys in an hour.”

In an hour. Christ, this is happening.

Jon swallows, a sharp bob of his throat. “Oh. You’re- sure?”

Daisy arches one eyebrow. “If you are.”

“I- yes. Yes.” Jon nods, then looks at Martin. “Yes?”

Martin nods back. “Yes, yeah.” He looks to Daisy. “Up north?”

She smiles, a surprisingly delicate thing. “Scottish countryside.”

Jon’s fingers tighten in Martin’s. “Thank you, Daisy. I-I don’t know how to-”

“Don’t.” She raises a hand, putting a stop to Jon’s stuttering. “Just- stay safe.”

Jon chuckles shakily. “That’s… certainly the goal.”

And just like that, Daisy gets up. “Alright. Meet back here in an hour?”

Martin’s stomach tightens. “Oh, that- that might not be enough time? I-I’m not sure what we might need, but-”

“Three hours?” Jon hedges.

Daisy frowns. “Two.”

Jon sighs heavily. “We’ll try.” He hops off the stool, and Martin rises with him.

Basira gets up as well, stepping immediately to Daisy’s side. She looks back at Melanie, who glares down at her long-empty bottle. “Melanie? You know what you’re going to do?”

“Mm. Think, probably.” She sighs and slides out of the booth, shoving her hands deep into her hoodie as she stands. “It’s, uh… a-a lot to process.”

“Yeah,” Martin huffs. “It is. Do you- is there someone you can… talk to? About all of it?” Jon gives him an odd little look out of the corner of his eye, but Melanie just smiles.

“Actually, yeah. Don’t worry about me. I think you two are about to have enough on your minds.” She starts to brush past them, then turns and points at them with narrowing eyes. “Get therapy. Both of you.”

Jon sputters, “Wha-?” and Martin feels that awful, warm fullness in his chest.

“Will do,” he says.

Melanie smirks, and flicks a wave over her shoulder as she leaves.

When they emerge from the pub, Martin’s eyes squint nearly shut against the daylight, and the crisp air stings his lungs. Jon must notice the shudder that runs through him; he pulses his fingers lightly between Martin’s, a flutter of reassurance. Shrinking from the brightness, Martin looks down at Jon—at the warm olive glow drawn from his rich brown skin by the sun, the coarse hairs draped a stark grey across his forehead, the hook of his nose, arch of his lips, cradle of silver-streaked scruff beneath his cheekbones, and those stupid-large, leagues-deep eyes—and he thinks that maybe he’s lucky that he doesn’t have long left to look at this face, because prolonged exposure might actually kill him.

“What?” Jon asks softly.

Martin’s mouth quivers. “Nothing.”

A throat clears. They jerk as one to see Basira, giving them a slow up-and-down. “Did you hold hands all the way here?” she asks.

Jon starts to stammer.

Basira’s eyebrows lift, face lighting with an amusement she manages to exude even without cracking a smile. “On the tube, too?”

“Um,” Martin squeaks.

“That’s a forty-five minute ride,” says Daisy.

“Forty-eight,” Jon says, clipped. Martin’s face goes well and truly hot. “The powers are jealous creatures,” Jon continues, voice sharpening as his hand tightens. “The Lonely could still come for him!”

“Oh, yeah.” Basira nods. “Can’t be too careful.”

Daisy nudges Jon’s shoulder with her own, knocking him into Martin’s arm. “Convenient,” she says.

“Oh- shut up,” Jon snaps. “We’ll- we’ll be back in two hours!” He starts down the street, and Martin follows.

Neither of them let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> -Martin dissociates throughout the first and third sections  
> -in the third section, Jon asks Martin if he wants to die. Martin has to think about it for a moment, but he says no.


	2. i think we're at that point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, ringing a cowbell: touch-starved gays, get your touch-starved gays here
> 
> also! i have bumped the rating down to T because that seems to be the standard rating for fics with similar levels of violence to this one. when we get to the gruesome bits, i'll change it back to M if anyone thinks i should.
> 
> TWs:  
> dissociation, discussion of bodily harm (please visit end notes for more details)

Jon’s flat is exactly what Martin expected.

Clutter overwhelms any sense of interior style. A laptop sits open on the skewed coffee table, facing a divot in the couch with blankets nested around it. There is not a visible surface on the small table wedged by the equally small kitchen, just a mess of paper. Martin counts four tape recorders. With the buzz of traffic through the thin walls, he can’t tell whether any of them are running.

“Well,” Jon sighs as he locks the door behind them. “I’ll be quick, then.” He steps beyond Martin, then stops, and turns with an apologetic tweak to his eyebrows.

For a moment, Martin just stares at him. Then he realises he’s still clutching Jon’s hand, and heat crawls up the back of his neck.

“Oh. S-sorry.” He lets go. Immediately the scorch of embarrassment recedes. A soothing cool waits behind him, and he leans into its gentleness. He lets it drift down his back, around his arms, down to his clammy hand. Better not to feel it.

“Do sit down, if you like!” Jon calls. Martin returns to himself with a small gasp. He stands alone in the entryway. Jon is gone, but Martin can hear him making a ruckus somewhere. He flexes his hand, the one he’d given to Jon, and frowns as he allows sensation to return to it. His fingers are stiff, and a humiliating amount of sweat slicks his palm. He hums awkwardly and smooths it on his trousers.

The thin, knitted blankets piled on the couch look soft, and Martin is tired, but something in him clenches tight at the thought of putting his body somewhere that Jon has carved out, seeing the same things he sees when he sits there, breathing the lived-in scent that a person leaves in their linens. Instead, he wanders toward the kitchen and stares at the mess on the table. It’s mostly statements. Not originals, but photocopies striped in highlighter and chicken-scratch notations. A few different notebooks lay open among the mess, but Martin can’t decipher Jon’s shorthand (or maybe that’s just his handwriting).

“Hang on.” Martin looks up at the partially-open door he assumes is Jon’s room. “Shouldn’t we bring statements? To- for you to eat?”

“I’ll order in.”

Martin sighs. “Don’t be daft.”

A duffel over his shoulder, Jon pushes through the door. “We don’t need them. If this goes well, I’ll be free of this by tomorrow.”

The blood leaves Martin’s face so quickly that he hears it rushing. “W- tomorrow? So soon?”

Jon shrugs. “Why wait?”

“Jon, shouldn’t we plan, or something? Like Basira and Melanie said? I mean, d-do you even know how you’d do it?”

Halfway to the door, Jon stops, his back to Martin. “I’d, uhh-” his voice fizzles out into something breathy and tight. He turns, and the naked fear in his eyes is not something that Martin likes to see at all.

“We’ll figure something out,” Jon says finally, hurriedly. “Regardless, we can’t afford to wait long. We shouldn't do it at the same time, obviously. Assuming it works, I’ll need a window to heal and adjust, so that I’ll be able to assist you when it’s your turn for recovery. I believe we have two weeks, three at the most, before you would start to be severely affected by being away from the archives. Well- I don’t want you to be weak when the day comes, so, let’s call it two. Given all of that, if I were to- ah- _Quit_ tomorrow, that gives me fourteen days to recuperate before we get ourselves into a- uh, ha- a blind-leading-the-blind situation.”

It occurs to Martin that he’s holding his breath. He exhales through his teeth. “Ah. Alright. You’ve... given it some thought, at least.”

Jon gives him a withering look, then drops his duffel unceremoniously by the door. “I _do_ plan,” he mumbles.

“Um. One thing, Jon.” Martin wrings his hands. “I, um... I want to go first.”

“What? Why?”

Martin chooses a corner of the ceiling to stare at. There’s a cobweb there, faint and fluffy. Probably innocuous. “Well, you… we don’t know if you’ll, um, survive? Once you’re severed from the Eye.”

“Oh.” Jon steps to Martin’s side. “Yes. You’re right. I… I wouldn’t want to leave you to do this alone.” Then his hand presses, small and light, to the back of Martin’s arm. Martin flinches. He makes himself feel every bit of the hot shame that bubbles through him when Jon pulls away, looking lost.

“Um,” Martin says, “I mean, hopefully that won’t happen. I- for the moment, let’s plan like you’re going to be just fine.” He tries to smile at Jon, and feels himself grimace. “But no matter what happens, I-I just feel- I know-” his throat tries to close around the words, his body fighting to absorb them back, but he clenches his fists and makes himself look at Jon’s face and say, “I need to be seen right now.”

“Oh.” Jon nods tightly, and the weight of his gaze presses heavier on Martin’s hindbrain. “Yes, that- that makes sense.

“And, um,” Martin finds that cobweb again, because this may be the most intentional conversation he’s had in months and it’s making his skin crawl, “what do you think of- I mean, tomorrow is really, really soon. And I’m not- _opposed_ to being spontaneous- obviously- but. Maybe just one more day? Bit of a breather tomorrow, then gouging on Saturday?”

Ridiculously, Jon laughs. He bites it back and clears his throat, nodding. “Of- yes, of course, Martin. The last thing I want to do is push you.”

“I need a push sometimes.” Martin says it on reflex, then bites his lip, unsure if it’s something he means, or even believes. He’s been pushed his whole life, never taking a step forward so much as stumbling with circumstance and necessity at his heels. It’s always felt like his element, but then, when has he had a choice?

He has a choice now. He’s choosing Jon. God help him.

“But, um, on this one,” he continues finally, “I think I just need a day.”

Jon gives him a gentle look, not quite a smile. “Whatever you need, Martin.”

They leave a few minutes later, and there is a finality in the shift of the lock. Being in the open air of the hall sends a shudder through Martin’s limbs. He wants Jon to take his hand. He can’t do it himself—or maybe he can, and he just doesn’t want to try—but Jon doesn’t take the initiative, so his fingers hang empty. He finds himself walking close to Jon, probably too close, imagining he can feel his body heat. The second time he veers too close and their elbows bump, Jon gives him a flighty look, then jerks his head resolutely away. Martin’s stomach drops.

Then they step out onto the street—into the world, among innumerable anonymous faces—and Martin can’t constrain the small, sharp breath that he sucks through his teeth. Without a word, Jon takes his hand.

Martin tethers himself to the touch. A hundred different thank-yous well within him, but they crowd up behind his teeth, and his tongue grows heavy with their weight.

* * *

[TRANSCRIPT OF CALL RECEIVED TO THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE AT PRIVATE EXTENSION 4318]

[CALL BEGINS 15:26, 02/09/18]

15:26 - **Theodore Allen** : Hello, you’ve got Theo. How may I-  
15:26 - **Automated Message** : Incoming call from Her Majesty’s Prison Brixton. Press one to accept, or two to reject.  
15:26 - **TA** : Bugger.  
15:26 - [KEYPAD INPUT: 1]  
15:27 - [LINE CONNECTS]  
15:27 - **Elias Bouchard** : Hello, Theodore. I have a favour to ask of you.  
15:27 - **TA** : Fuck you.  
15:27 - **EB** : Now, there’s no need for that. You wouldn’t have answered if you weren’t resigned to your place in our arrangement.  
15:27 - **TA** : Maybe I wanted to hear your stupid voice when I reminded you that you’ve got no power over me anymore.  
15:27 - **EB** : Oh, did Louise leave you, then?  
15:28 - **EB** : I’ll take that as a no. I could give her a call next, if you’d like.  
15:29 - **TA** : No! No, shit- [indistinguishable] Fine. God, fine. What do you want?  
15:29 - **EB** : Calm down, Theodore. It isn’t anything worth agonising over.  
15:29 - **TA** : That’s what you said last time.  
15:30 - **EB** : I believe my exact words were ‘it won’t kill you.’ It didn’t.  
15:30 - **TA** : Just get on with it.  
15:30 - **EB** : Very well. In about twenty minutes, a corrections officer will arrive at Bessborough Gardens with a padded envelope. He has been instructed to wait by the fountain. Show him your Institute ID, and he will give you the envelope. He and I have a… similar arrangement to the one that you and I share, so he may be a bit- hm. Tetchy. If he gives you any trouble, please remind him that I’m on a schedule, and I don’t take kindly to delays.  
15:31 - **EB** : Once you have the envelope, check its contents. It should contain the eight-page statement of Hazel Rutter, given August 9th, 1992. Once you have confirmed that this is all in order, return to the Institute. And do watch out for Peter Lukas. I believe he’s in a bit of a mood. If he sees you running errands for me, it could be very… unpleasant.  
15:31 - **TA** : What does that mean?  
15:31 - **EB** : It means that it would be in both of our interests for you to avoid being seen.  
15:31 - **TA** : So, what, just get the statement?  
15:32 - **EB** : Not quite. This next part is very specific. Do you need to write it down?  
15:32 - **TA** : Piss off. I can remember.  
15:32 - **EB** : Very well. Go down to the Head Archivist’s office. It will not be locked. You will find it quite cluttered with the accoutrement of archival work, so be sure you have my next instruction very clear in your mind. Behind the Archivist's desk, propped on the floor against the leftmost bookshelf, will be a thick, unmarked file bound in elastic bands, one red and two blue. Carefully unbind the file. You will find statements inside. Take the statement from the envelope and place it three deep into the stack. Then re-bind the file, prop it exactly back where it was, and leave.  
15:33 - **EB** : Did you get that?  
15:33 - **TA** : Uh… yeah. That’s it?  
15:33 - **EB** : Yes. And as long as it’s done quickly and exactly, you won’t be hearing from me again.  
15:33 - **TA** : Wha- Really? Just like that?  
15:33 - **EB** : Just like that.  
15:34 - **TA** : ...Alright. Unmarked file, elastic bands, one red, two blue?  
15:34 - **EB** : Precisely.  
15:34 - **TA** : Huh. Okay.  
15:34 - **EB** : Be quick, Theodore. Goodbye.

[CALL ENDS]

* * *

When they cross the threshold of Martin’s front door, Jon’s features twist in such bald-faced concern that Martin can’t look at him. He turns instead to his flat, and tries to figure out what Jon might be seeing that he, himself, didn’t think about when he left this morning.

Everything is faded. Not the sun-bleached pallor of a room with an oft-open window, but a soft grey, gentle and unobtrusive and perhaps the result of dust. It’s tidy- beyond tidy, in fact. Empty. Barren. It smells like absolutely nothing, though Martin isn’t sure whether that’s because he’s used to the scent of his own flat, or because there is, simply, nothing to smell.

It must be cold, because Jon begins to rub at his own arms, the sleeves of his jumper bunching under his hands. “It’s stuck,” he murmurs.

Looking where Jon nods to, Martin sees his kitchen clock, the one his mother left behind, ticking away. The second hand twitches forward and then back, never progressing. He approaches and lifts the clock from its hook, then removes the batteries. It keeps ticking.

Jon frowns. “Well, I don’t like that.”

Martin shrugs. “Seems harmless enough. I’ll pack quick?”

“Uh, sure. Be careful.”

Unsure what to do with that, Martin leaves Jon standing in his living room.

His closet, when he opens it, looks unfamiliar. The clothes he actually likes—tees worn to softness, hand-knit jumpers he’s managed to keep crisp and tight for a decade, tapered jeans, and the pair of khakis that actually make his arse look alright—are all shoved to the sides, obscured by dust. In the center of the rack, where he normally keeps his staples, are bland dress shirts and a set of jacket and slacks that he bought when he was scrambling between job interviews before starting at the Institute.

Staring at the buttons on the shirts, thinking of how uncomfortable they make him, a tightness suddenly constricts his upper arms. It’s the jacket he’s wearing- god, it’s so uncomfortable. Has he been this uncomfortable for months? He doesn’t even have full range of motion in the thing. His breath hitches. This isn’t _right_. He tears the jacket off, hands frantic as the too-tight seams restrict his shoulders. He fumbles for the buttons on his shirt. Why are his fingers shaking? He throws the shirt down next to the jacket and stares at them, standing there in his undershirt, suddenly heaving for air.

It never was comfortable, being present.

After a moment, he sighs shakily and pulls on an old band tee. Then he drags his suitcase from under his bed and packs all of the clothes he can fit (excepting the business casuals). After that, he raids the en suite, grabbing everything he thinks he could possibly need. He opens the medicine cabinet on the off-chance there’s something in it he’s forgotten, and goes still. There, wedged in the corner, are his earrings. It’s a small collection, but each pair is well-loved. He used to change them daily with his moods, when his moods were less… this.

Carefully, he brushes the little studs into his palm. He rolls them against his fingers, considers them: the tiny enamel fountain pens he bought in a moment of romanticism, the trans flag-striped hearts Tim gave him for secret santa, the prickly little cacti that always made him think of Jon. For a moment he thinks he’s about to laugh, but the sound that leaves him skews toward a sob, so he bites his lips into his mouth to avoid another.

Without giving it much more thought, he sets a pair aside and tosses the others carelessly into his toiletry bag. Absently he closes the cabinet, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

“Oh.” He touches his fingertips to his cheek. It takes a few seconds for the drawn, empty face in the glass to do the same. A few freckles spatter his nose, but gone is the thick swarm meant to gather from ear to ear and up to his hairline. His jaw is bare, too. Ever since he could grow it, he’s kept at least a patch of scruff on his chin to break up the ill-defined juncture between his face and neck. When he was job hunting, he wore a full beard to age himself a bit. In Research, he trimmed it to an artful stubble in an attempt to look like he belonged among the Magnus Institute’s historic halls. After starting in the Archives, he wore it mostly in scruffy patches, something that just sort of happened as little things like regular shaves fell off of his radar. Apparently, it is something he does every morning with Forsaken.

His fingertips skate across his chin, his jaw, to his ear. All these little things that he’s gathered over the years to build himself… he let them fall away. No need to distinguish himself when he’s alone, he supposes. No need to silently beg people to notice him with his stupid earrings, to imagine that they’ll fancy his little grooming preferences, or like the shape of him in his pristine jumpers. People hardly notice him anyway, so why bother—

He can see the wallpaper through his reflection.

He draws a deep breath. Then he takes the set of simple black studs he set aside and puts them in his ears. It stings, when he pushes through the partially closed skin. He makes himself feel it.

In a moment, he’s solid again.

“Okay,” he sighs. “Packing.”

His packing instincts, at least, haven’t changed; he has to sit on his suitcase to get it zipped once everything is in. Luggage tamed, he wheels it into the kitchen. There, he finds Jon stood on his tip-toes, rummaging in the cabinet above the range where Martin keeps his tea.

Jon whips toward him, looking caught. “Oh! I thought you might want- do you have a favourite? O-or-“

“Whatever looks best to you.”

“Ah. Alright.” Jon sinks back down with a few boxes of tea in hand. His mouth does something a bit funny, then he says, “You look like you feel better.”

Martin nods. “Um, thanks.” He clears his throat, and checks the time on his phone. “We’ve got a few minutes. I’ll make us something for the road, then? I missed lunch, and I don’t imagine you made it down the canteen between hearing the statement and inviting me for some light self-mutilation.”

Jon huffs a low little laugh. “Ah- no, I did not. Thank you, Martin.” He says his name with such intent, like he means to say something else. It makes Martin’s throat squeeze.

“Uh- no problem, Jon.”

While Martin sets about throwing together a utilitarian meal, Jon steps into the living room and dials someone.

“Basira? Are you near the Institute? Excellent... Can you get something from my office?”

Martin has become very comfortable with eavesdropping over the past few months, and listens in like second nature as Jon gives Basira a series of very specific instructions. She apparently finds the wrong thing a few times, and it doesn’t take Jon long to begin grousing.

“Yes, it matters,” he snaps, one hand shoved under the opposite arm as he paces, hunched, like some kind of gremlin. “They _are_ organised! I know where everything is. Can you—no, that won’t work. I need statements that are unimportant, but enough to get by on. I have a collection. It’s very important that- oh. Oh! Good. What’s the first one? Yes, good. That’s it. Yes, the whole folder. Thank you, Basira. I really- oh.” He drops his phone, frowning at it. “She hung up.”

“Good timing, at least.” Martin hands Jon a bagged sandwich and a thermos. “What’s that about statements you can just get by on?”

Jon worries at the sandwich bag with twitchy fingers. “They’re just... insignificant. Old, isolated incidents, stories without pertinent information. That sort of thing.”

“What, like- like living on crisps?”

“Ah- yes, actually.”

“Oh! Oh. Jon, that’s- if we’re doing this, you’ll need your strength.”

“I’ve made my commitments, you saw to that,” Jon snaps. Before Martin can react, Jon shrinks and clenches his fists. “Lord. Sorry. We did this already. I’m just- this is what I have to do.”

There’s a note to that, a resignation, that sits uneasy in Martin’s stomach. “I understand that you can’t handle this the way you really want to. But couldn’t- are some of the statements better? More, I don’t know, nutritious?”

He feels quite stupid as he says it, which makes it all the more surprising when Jon grumbles,

“Yes, there are.” He sighs heavily. “But they’re the ones the Eye wants me to read. If I’m really going to cut off its influence, I should wean myself, so to speak.”

“Ah. Yeah, I suppose so?” Martin frowns down at Jon’s tight, determined expression. “Is it like- are you worried you won’t be able to quit cold-turkey?”

The smile that flickers across Jon’s mouth is not a kind one. “Couldn’t when I smoked.”

“Don’t think we aren’t going to have a talk about _that_.”

Jon’s lips soften a bit. “Bad habit. I know.”

“Not as bad as feeding on someone’s trauma and haunting their dreams, but I don’t have to like it.” Jon tenses a little at that, which is fair, actually, and makes Martin take notice of the breath of ice against his heart. It comes from within, this time; no fog, just him, maybe changed by the Lonely, maybe just changed. He rubs at the center of his chest with the heel of his hand, as if that will do anything.

“Um- anyway. We should get going.”

This time, Martin makes himself take Jon’s hand. Jon tenses so severely at the touch that Martin almost lets go, but then Jon grips him soundly. Without facing him, Jon breathes in, breathes out, and lets the taut tendons in his fingers soften. The frost clutching Martin’s chest begins to thaw. It drips cold into his gut, stirring a shiver of adrenaline that spreads through him in tingles. When it settles in the column of his spine, it has matured fully into fear.

Now that he has Jon, he can lose him. That’s the crux of it: the fear of losing has to be bad enough that relinquishing to the Not Having is simple, seductive. It would be so much easier, not to endure this.

Jon’s thumb strokes across Martin’s, and he hopes that the fear is worth it.

* * *

Daisy hands them two sets of keys: one for the safe house, and one for the Corsa parked a stone’s throw down the street. When Jon asks where the car came from, she declines to answer. She tells them she’ll come collect it when they can’t use it anymore, and all of them nod calmly, like the implications of the arrangement aren’t extremely ominous.

Basira gives Jon a thick folder of statements lashed in elastic bands, and wishes them both well. There is only a hint of irony in her voice as she says, “And don’t come back.”

On their way out of town, they stop by their respective banks and both empty their accounts. Martin’s brows raise when he sees the sum Jon pulls from his savings. Jon mutters something about receiving six months’ back pay for his time comatose, and not bothering to question it.

“Oh.” Martin stops, and finds himself chuckling. “Yeah, I did that, actually?”

Jon swivels toward him, eyes wide. “You?”

“Yeah, uh- Peter doesn’t- didn’t really do a lot of the actual managing. When I realised there was pretty much zero oversight, I didn’t see a reason not to compensate people a bit more fairly for working in a temple of- uh, omniscient evil? Thought you deserved a bit of that compensation as well, after what you’d been through. Since it was a, uh, work trip and all.”

The look Jon gives him is nakedly fond, and Martin tries not to shrink from it.

“That’s… very thoughtful, Martin.”

So as not to go completely red in the bank lobby, Martin starts for the door. “Yeah, well,” he mutters as he holds it open for Jon. Jon just smirks at him.

For the first six hours of the trip, Jon drives, and Martin sleeps. He is unsure whether it’s because he’s tired, or because being alone with the prospect of conversation makes him remember just how hard his anxious heart can pound, but the prospect of opening his eyes is dreadfully unappealing.

The sleep is fitful and not especially satisfying, but he does get several hours of it. He finally comes fully awake well after nightfall, to the tinny voice of Dua Lipa struggling through the car’s ancient speakers. He sits up and presses a hand to his face, bleary.

“Jon?”

“Mm?”

“Are you… listening to pop?”

Jon’s brow arches, severe, eyes still on the road. “Yes,” he says, with an edge of hesitance.

“Sorry. Let me-” Martin rights himself in his seat. “You _like_ pop?”

“I’m still a _bit_ human.”

“Yes, okay- it just. Doesn’t seem like… you?”

“Top Forty Hits,” Jon says with his signature academic pretension, “are in the Top Forty for a reason, Martin.”

Martin snorts.

“I am not above the thrall of catchy music!” Jon insists, and Martin can’t quite tell for the darkness, but there might be a playful lilt to his mouth.

Martin lifts his hands in surrender. “Not judging! Just thought you’d be more a… talk radio type?”

“I normally am. I did find a show I liked earlier, but the co-host was absolutely grating. Why is it that so many hosts feel the need to—”

It goes on like this for a while, Jon ranting with casual disdain about the state of modern talk radio, and Martin watching him do it.

Eventually, Martin settles back in his seat and just… lets the moment in. He remembers with an acute stab of mortification that he used to stare at Jon like this across rooms and think about how pretty he was. Pretty isn’t the word he’d choose today, due partly to the unforgiving years now passed, and partly to his own maturation. Jon is a mess. He’s a mess with striking features and thick hair and long, slender hands, but a mess all the same. There’s hardly a part of his face left unmarked by the Corruption’s scars, or by early signs of age. He has a lot of wrinkles. But they’re just lines, and Martin would love to learn them with his fingertips. Maybe, one day, his lips.

At that thought, Martin sighs and lays his head against the window. When Jon came to him this afternoon—was it really just today? Christ—Martin was sure he heard a confession somewhere in the desperation. Gouging their eyes to escape an all-knowing entity isn’t exactly elopement, but asking to run away with someone always has the subtext of a deep connection, doesn’t it? But then, Jon hasn’t said a word about what it _means_ , and they both know that he’s aware of Martin’s feelings. Not that Martin has said a word about what it means, either, but he’s been obvious enough over the years. Jon may not be the most emotionally intelligent person, but he is intelligent in the general sense, and now that he can just Know things… he is certainly aware of how Martin feels. So, if Jon doesn’t act on it, it’s because he doesn’t feel the same. Simple.

Jon shivers in his periphery and reaches to turn on the heat. The glass beneath Martin’s cheek crackles with a hint of frost. Martin sits up again and wipes his face. His flush, at least, fights off the cold.

“Stop off the next place you can, and I’ll drive the rest.”

Jon agrees without argument, which Martin takes as a testament to his exhaustion. Yet, when Jon slumps into the passenger side at the petrol station where they pull over, he makes no move to rest. He watches Martin adjust the driver’s seat, eyes following his hands, leaving prickles sparking across Martin’s knuckles like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

“I do have my license,” Martin says, as Jon watches him adjust the mirrors.

“Yes. Just…” A small breathy sound, and Jon looks out the window instead. “It’s, uh, it’s all a bit novel.”

“Oh? You didn’t wake up planning on an all-night road trip to Scotland?”

“Of course I wake up every day ready for _that_.” Jon’s cheek twitches under the apparent strain of staying straight-faced through the sarcasm. Then his expression smooths, and he looks down at his hands. “I meant… I, ah, didn’t expect to spend the day with... you.” His eyes rise to Martin’s.

Martin grips the wheel at ten and two, and tries not to veer into the Archivist's stare. The car isn’t even moving.

“Um,” he breathes. “Same, I guess? It’s been. Nice.”

Jon smiles. “It has.”

Martin looks at the car park in front of them, the road stretching beyond. At some point, he put his hand on the keys, but he hasn’t turned the ignition. It has occurred to him that he is in a car with Jonathan Sims, and they are hundreds of miles from anything familiar, and they have done this on purpose, with each other. It feels… heavy.

“You alright?” Jon asks.

Martin clears his throat and nods. “Yeah. Yeah.” Then he pulls out onto the road.

As promised, Martin drives the rest of the way. Jon, despite having bags under his eyes big enough to go in the boot, doesn’t sleep. He takes up talking points seemingly at random, sometimes asking Martin the odd question, but largely able to babble on without assistance. Martin is content to listen, letting Jon’s voice relax him into his seat. The conversation—lecture, really—veers somehow into the particulars of gardening, and Jon surprises Martin thoroughly by discussing the topic in depth for nearly an hour. Martin wonders if Jon gardened with his grandmother. He can’t make himself ask.

Long after their SatNav has led them off the main roads and onto tapered dirt, the headlights finally catch a distant, solitary structure on the crest of a low hill.

“That wasn’t bad,” Jon says, glancing at his phone. “It’s not even two yet.” Martin can’t figure out if the comment is sarcastic or not, so he just hums in agreement and brings the car to a stop.

With a litany of pops, he unfolds himself from the car and starts to stretch. He turns to see what they’re getting themselves into, and his arms drop mid-reach.

“Oh, ho, this- this is a _cottage_ , Jon!” The squat stone and log structure could hardly be called anything else. The thatched roof, ivy-laced trellises, and antique water pump are goddamn picturesque. “Can you believe _Daisy_ has a _cottage_?”

“Yes,” Jon says, “actually, I can.” He gets out of the car with a wince and no small amount of effort. His bad leg gives, and he catches himself on the door with a small “aah-” and a sharp gasp through clenched teeth. Martin winces, too. He wants to ask him what he’s been doing to take care of himself. Now isn’t the time, though, so he just watches Jon walk stiffly down the uneven stone path and, after some working with the key, go inside. Martin resolves to follow in a moment.

The night is beautifully, oppressively quiet. He stands in it, breathes it in. Stars spill endlessly overhead, and there is a depth beyond them that Martin hasn’t seen since he moved to London. A sweet breeze threads through his hair, tousling the waves. He closes his eyes to let it wash over his face, and it takes him a whole few seconds to even think about being Lonely.

When he does, he’s surprised by how easily he pushes the fog away.

After grabbing their bags, Martin shoulders through the front door and is met with a sparse but not unpleasant interior. The kitchen and living area are more or less one room, and a hall leads off from them, sporting a few doors. This is where Jon stands, rummaging in what looks like a closet. He glances up as Martin shuts and bolts the door behind him.

“O-oh! Thank you, you didn’t have to—” Jon limps over and reaches out for his duffel, which Martin shrugs off with a small smile.

“I don’t mind. This place is, uhh…”

“Spartan?”

“I was going to say dusty.”

Jon chuckles at that, and the sound is so weary, so vulnerable, that Martin feels like he wasn’t meant to hear it. He clears his throat and pockets his free hand.

“Well, um. As much as I’d like to get unpacked—”

“Yes, sleep is- uh, um… good.” Jon sighs. “Good Lord, I am tired.”

Martin smiles at that (when did he start smiling again?) and heads down the hall. The door at the end is the bedroom, as he suspected. It’s rather cosy, all things considered. The curtains look heavy enough to insulate the room from both light and climate, and there is quite a thick mattress on the high bed.

 _Oh._ Bed. Singular. He thinks quickly back to the couch he’d seen on the way in, but it was so small; he’d kill his neck and back trying to sleep on that thing. And he could never ask Jon to take it and aggravate whatever his condition may be. God, okay. That means— should he suggest—?

“Oh, a trundle. That’s quaint.” Jon walks past him, drops his duffle, and grasps a handle near the bottom of the wooden bed frame. With a small grunt of effort, he pulls, and a second mattress rolls out from under the bed. He drops down on it heavily, then swipes his hands backwards over its bare surface with a look of consideration. “Hm. That’s not bad, actually. I’ll take this one, if that’s alright?”

Martin nods blankly. He rounds the bed and drops onto the taller mattress, which creaks in protest of his weight. A shaky relief blooms through his chest, but he feels disappointment hanging beneath it, small but heavy, like a ball bearing.

He laughs softly at himself and scrubs a hand over his face. He’s so tired.

Martin finds sheets and blankets after a brief search and begins to make the beds. Jon heads back into the hall and returns with a broom, which he uses to pointedly swipe every cobweb out of its crevice or corner. The ceiling looms low, so he manages to clear the whole room, although it leaves the broom looking like the world’s worst candy floss. Jon scowls at it, and Martin loves him, stupidly, helplessly.

“Here,” he says, and can’t help the way his voice goes soft. “I’ll take care of that.” Jon hands over the broom with a grateful look, all gentle brows and hesitant smile that Martin doesn’t deserve, not for something so small, not after Jon held him fast against the Forsaken, led him by the half-catatonic hand all over London, drove more than his share into the long night.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon says softly. It hits like a fist in the gut.

Martin scrapes the webs and their few inhabitants off into the weed-choked front garden, and washes his hands thoroughly before turning out the lights and heading back to the bedroom. Suitcase lugged up onto the bed, he removes what he might need tonight, mostly toiletries and a set of soft joggers and t-shirt to sleep in. Jon does the same, sitting on his mattress with his bad leg resting outward, rummaging in his disorganised duffle.

Martin has never been to summer camp, but he imagines it might feel like this. Except probably without the metaphysical embodiment of existential isolation tugging at his elbow, or the knowledge of unspeakable physical pain hanging in the future—and definitely, _absolutely_ without seeing his not-quite-human boss start to undress casually in front of him.

“Um,” he says, but it barely makes it past his throat, and Jon doesn’t seem to hear.

The jumper—Martin’s jumper, god—comes off slowly, halting every time Jon’s shoulders catch. The hem creeps over his bowed back to reveal clusters of scars, and Martin’s breath snags with the sight. Somehow it had never occurred to him that the worms had got past Jon’s limbs, but of course they had. That was what these things did: they went for the vulnerabilities, and never in half measures. Jon stretches to his full height to pull the jumper over his head, and the shape of him sharpens into angled hips and pinched waist and a skewed, skeletal silhouette. For a moment Martin thinks he’s looking at some kind of scoliosis, but the jagged ladder of Jon’s spine stands straight enough, and he realises with a drop of his stomach that Jon’s ribcage is simply _wrong_.

“Jon. That- that rib, by the coffin—”

Jon deflates with a small half-chuckle, then tosses the balled-up jumper at his duffle. “Yes, mine. Floating, I-I think? Haven’t missed them.” He carefully pulls a worn _What The Ghost?_ tee over his head, and doesn’t face Martin. “You, uh… I’ve been wondering: where did you find all those tape recorders?”

“Oh. You know, it’s funny, I just... found one everywhere I looked.”

“Hmm. They do like you.” Jon says it with something like affection, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with that.

So, he stands with his things in hand, says, “I’ll take the loo first?” and ducks into the ensuite before Jon can reply.

Martin is more than happy to change behind the locked door. He’s comfortable with his body in a way that he didn’t used to be, but whatever kind of locker room policy Jon seems to think the place is under, Martin is not ready for it. It’s been an absurd day, and he doesn’t think his heart could take being laid bare before those eyes. (As if Jon would even care to look at him.)

He gets refreshed and washed, then settles into bed while Jon takes his turn. The groan of pipes and gentle rush of running water work against the quiet of the highland night, leaving Martin with the knowledge of another person nearby sitting oddly on his chest. He can’t remember the last time he slept with someone else in the room.

God, it was Jon, wasn’t it? Jon, comatose— _dead_ —with his hand cold beneath Martin’s, and his purpled eyelids twitching in endless REM. He spent more than one night in those awful hospital chairs, knowing his presence did nothing but unable to stand the quiet of his flat. The last night he kept vigil, he wept himself to exhaustion, and woke collapsed half-out of his chair, his face pressed into the starched sheets by Jon’s thigh. It was Georgie who found him that way, who put her hand warmly, gently on his shoulder, and gave him his first kind words in a while:

_“You can’t keep doing this, Martin. I think… maybe you shouldn’t come here anymore. Not until you’ve taken care of yourself, talked to someone, maybe? He’ll be here whether you get help or not.”_

He pushes the memory away, rolling over to focus on the splinter of moonlight struggling between the thick curtains. It’s going to be a lot of work unravelling the grief he endured for Jon, but he’s sure as hell not starting it tonight.

At length, he hears Jon emerge, and then the light flicks off. There’s a soft sigh of springs from the other mattress, and a rustle of sheets.

“Goodnight, Martin.”

“...Goodnight, Jon.”

Slowly, the exposed wood beams above the bed emerge from the formless darkness as Martin’s eyes adjust. He should close them, probably, but everything in him is alert. The absence of traffic is a noise all its own, a rolling, roaring silence settling over the room. Jon’s breathing is a momentary balm, but it fades with the oncoming chill. Martin wants to flex his toes, to figure out if there’s a warmer place beneath the blanket, but moving seems a monumental task.

Suddenly, a sound. Loud, high- a screech, maybe a squeal, almost like the whine of an aggravated tape recorder.

Martin doesn't breathe for a moment. Then the noise stops. Starts again. Stops. Starts.

Crickets. It’s fucking crickets. Martin closes his eyes and feels the prickle of tears, wrought mostly from the embarrassed anger climbing his neck capillary by capillary. Despite the heat, his limbs still lie cold and distant at his sides.

His lips part once, twice, before he whispers, “Jon?”

After a moment, Jon lifts up on his elbow, eyelids heavy. “Mm?”

Martin draws a shuddery breath, then lays his hand palm-up at the edge of the bed. “Could you—?”

Jon takes his hand. “Of course.”

“...Thank you.”

Jon gazes at Martin, and Martin is mesmerised, for the moment, by his sleep-soft expression and the lazy loops of his hair slipping from where he’s tucked it behind his ears. He wants to close his eyes and shrink deep into himself, far enough that he can’t see those waiting, imploring eyes.

He wants to cradle Jon’s jaw in the palm of his hand, and run his thumb across the sharp peaks of his upper lip.

“Could you-?” The question sticks in his throat. “Can we talk? A bit?”

Jon’s hand stiffens in his. “I, uh, I- Is something wrong, or—?”

“Oh!” Martin turns onto his side and squeezes Jon’s hand. “No, I didn’t mean- not, like ‘we need to talk.’ Just - it’s so quiet out here.”

Jon gasps a breath that sounds awfully like relief. “Oh! Oh, ah, yes. Yes, we can do that.”

“I- sorry, you’re probably knackered—”

“I don’t mind. Not at all. Um.” Jon lowers himself down, laying on his side with his free arm under his pillow, tilted to meet Martin’s eyes. “What… did you want to talk about?”

“I... I don’t know? I think this might be the, mm, second casual conversation I’ve had with you? That isn’t, uh, under duress.”

Jon scoffs softly. “Ah. Yes. Those lunches in the canteen were… how to put it...”

“Tense?”

“Tense. Yes.” The shadows of Jon’s face deepen, and his eyes dart as he seems to consider something. Finally, he whispers, “I… I’m sorry, Martin.”

Martin’s eyes go wide. “Wha- For what?”

“For… god, everything.”

“Okay? That covers a lot of ground, but maybe you could be more specific?”

“For how I treated you,” Jon says in a rush. “When we started in the archives. And then I was such an _idiot_ when Sasha—” he cuts off, grimaces. “Well. You were so very kind to me while I was a raving lunatic, and I responded by accusing you of murder.”

“Oh! Jon, I-I really don’t blame you for what happened after Prentiss. I mean, yes, obviously, you could have handled it better. A lot better. But it was really traumatic for all of us. And with the Stranger around, I can’t imagine how that might have affected you, being- uh, Archivist, and all? Just… don’t worry about it, Jon. It’s okay.” His breath used, Martin tries to steady himself, to inhale normally. His voice, when it comes again, is a thin murmur. “I wish I could have done more.”

Jon sighs. “You did… you’ve no idea, Martin. You did so much. I-I don’t know how I could repay you.”

Martin sits with that for a moment. Then he says, “Um… you could, uh. Elaborate.”

“On what?”

“On how sorry you are for being an absolute prick to me when we first started.”

Jon shoots back up onto his elbow. “Oh! Yes, god, I-I-I really am sorry, Martin. If I could go back—”

“Don’t start that,” Martin sighs. “We’d be here all night.” Jon huffs a sardonic little sound, then goes quiet. Martin chuckles. “You… really aren’t good at personnel management.”

Jon sighs. “No, I am not.”

“You think they make a mug?”

“Hm?”

“World’s worst boss?”

“Now, surely that would go to Elias.”

Martin hums seriously. “Hmm. Think I’d just get him one that says ‘cunt’.”

Jon’s hand tightens on Martin’s, and he whips his face into his pillow to snicker.

The sight constricts around Martin’s heart. “Really, any mug would do. I’d just brain him with it.”

Shoulders shaking, Jon pushes his free hand between himself and the pillow to hold his face as he laughs. The sounds stay quiet, but the pitch peaks. He shakes harder, and the noise strains, and Martin brings his other hand to rest gently on Jon’s ragged knuckles.

“Jon? Are you alright?”

It takes a moment, but the shaking subsides. Jon spends a few limp moments face-first in his pillow, then sighs very loudly.

“Long day,” he mutters.

Martin cradles Jon’s hand, giving it a gentle tug. “Sleep.”

“But you…”

“I’m fine. Sleep, Jon.”

Martin expects the argument to drag on as it often does when Jon is faced with the prospect of basic self-care, but he seems to have very little fight left. In the end, it only takes a few minutes of silence to bring about Jon’s light snores. Martin looks down at him, lashes stark against a pale scar on his cheek, one hand a delicate curl by his mouth, and—

Fuck. He’s in it now.

* * *

Since he felt the first quickening of romance in his gay little heart, Martin had a weakness for authority figures. He’d crushed on them all: teachers, coaches, babysitters—even the young Priest from the neighboring parish who gave mass one Sunday (though this was appended with a healthy serving of Catholic guilt). It was probably to do with something very broken and exploitable in the tangle of his childhood trauma. He tried not to think about it.

Point being, there was precedent for the Jonathan Sims Issue.

Of course he noticed Jon long before they were promoted out of research; they worked in close proximity, and Martin was very single and did, in fact, have eyes. Jon wore a weathered look about him, like he’d be quite elegant if he got a full night’s sleep and maybe ate something. Martin sort of wanted to make these suggestions to him, but it was none of his business, and he had to admit that the tired aesthetic appealed to a part of him (probably the same part that hid well-worn vampire novels under his mattress as a tween). Also, he couldn’t deny the thrill of standing near Jon and knowing he could pick him up like nothing. He certainly wasn’t in the habit of fantasising about manhandling his coworkers, but once he was visited by the idea that he could lift Jon by the slim backs of his thighs until their lips met, Martin had trouble shaking it off. He at least had the decency to be a bit cross with himself over it.

They rarely spoke, but that was fine. He saw Jon snipe at other people often enough, and wasn’t keen to get any of that. No, he was content watching Jon from afar. It was hardly even a crush, just an idle hobby when he needed to let his mind drift for a moment. He also watched the guy with the long locs and thick eyelashes, and the guy with the Oscar Wilde quote tattooed on his forearm, and sometimes even Tim, whose broad shoulders looked so loose and easy when he laughed.

The trouble started with the Archives. (Everything started with the Archives.)

Jon took his new position quite seriously. He showed up on day one with shined shoes, a haircut, and a crisp, fitted blazer that made Martin’s mouth dry. The intensity Jon had once turned on his research now fell on his assistants, so sharp and single-minded that Martin had to leave to do breathing exercises in the mens’ room after their first staff meeting. Jon hadn’t even shouted at them or said anything particularly harsh; he’d just made his expectations clear, and Martin had felt the ground cracking beneath his feet as he realised that he could not hide his lack of practical knowledge in a department of three. He decided there, staring at the hideous green lavatory tile, that he’d have to ingratiate himself to survive here. Helpful Martin, pleasant Martin, people-person Martin. He could do that. He’d done that his whole life. It wouldn’t even be false, really, it would just be… turned up. Intentional. _Be intentionally yourself_. That sounded like something new-age and healthy, didn’t it? This was fine.

It had to be fine.

At the end of their first week, Martin found himself standing outside the Head Archivist’s office, stilled by the low, dry murmur of Jon’s voice behind the door. There was no strict rule against interrupting recordings, as it was easy enough to pause the tape, but Martin had learned quickly that Jon didn’t take distractions well. So he waited, worrying his first ever report between his fingers until he realised that was liable to get the paper sweaty.

Just when he began to consider risking the interruption, he distinguished a clear, “Recording ends,” followed by the click of a chunky plastic button.

He took a breath to steel himself, then rapped the back of his knuckles against the door.

“Yes?”

God, the man had the audacity to sound annoyed even before he knew who was at his door. “Um, it’s Mart-”

“Yes means ‘come in.’”

“Oh.” Martin opened the door. “It’s Martin,” he finished, quivering on a self-conscious chuckle.

“I can see that,” Jon groused, though he had not looked up. The newly trimmed hair he’d shown up with at the beginning of the week had fallen to disarray; whisps touched his cheeks and draped over his forehead, exposing thick grey waves that had been harder to see when it was all properly slicked back.

It was a dignified if chaotic look, like a run-down university professor. University professors weren’t exactly Martin’s area of expertise, but he could see Jon in that position easily, striking fear into the hearts of half his students, oblivious to the huge crushes harboured by the rest. He’d go through ten red pens each term, and chain-smoke as he grumbled over any paper that came short of perfection. Not that Martin would ever want Jon to fall back into that nasty habit, but this was a fantasy, wasn’t it, and he could not forget how elegant Jon’s fingers had looked around the cigarettes he used to sneak before quitting in the early days. Even now, in his non-dominant hand, Jon held his pencil limply between his first few fingers like he would a cig, and Martin knew that he would touch the rubber to his lips if he fell far enough into concentration. God, those lips. They parted slightly, then drew back—

“Did you need something?” Jon asked, heavy and put-upon.

Martin arrived in reality with a dreadful drop of his stomach. “Oh,” he gasped. Oh, god. “Yes, just turning in. First report, yeah?”

“I trust you’ll be putting more effort into your work here than you did in research.” Jon still didn’t look up, just let his acrid voice hang between them as Martin stood, frozen, with his report halfway to the wire inbox on the corner of the desk.

“Sorry?” he squeaked.

“I’m quite familiar with your work.” Finally Jon looked up, gaze slicing through his glasses, pinning Martin where he stood. “This Archive may be a disorganised nightmare, but I intend to hold our department to a higher standard.” His eyes skipped down to the papers in Martin’s hand. “That includes proper citations, thorough fact-checking, and,” his eyes narrowed, “ _professionalism_.”

Martin swallowed. “Okay.”

A moment passed, air so thick Martin could hardly breathe it, as Jon’s attention lifted slowly up from the report to Martin’s face, a clear challenge. Martin dropped the report in the inbox, if only because the humiliation of folding under Jon’s glare would make it impossible to come in on Monday.

“Well,” Martin said, voice altogether too high. “Um- have a nice weekend?”

“Mm. Close the door on your way out.”

Martin closed the door on his way out. Then he returned to his desk, laid his face flat on it, and groaned.

The rattle of a rolling chair approached. “Aw, don’t fret, Marto. He’s just an arse.” The desk jolted, and Martin looked up to find Tim immediately in front of him, arms folded over his files.

“Please don’t call me Marto.” His voice came out so horribly feeble that he couldn’t even fault Tim for laughing.

“Listen. Sasha and I are hitting Prism tonight. Come with us! Stop fretting!”

“I’m not- _fretting_ \- wait. Prism?”

“Yep!” Tim hit the plosive hard, his smile golden around it. “Am I wrong in assuming it’s your kind of place?”

“Uh- no! No? It’s- I’ve just been before, and it’s- kind of loud?”

Tim nodded as if considering this, then spun once in his chair and said, “First drink’s on me,” and oh, god, could Martin use a drink.

“...Alright. No shots.”

An hour later, Sasha, Tim, and Martin slammed down their shot glasses in unison.

“Woo!”

“Euugh!”

“Fuck!”

Tim threw his head back and laughed, flushed from his throat down to the mid-chest button which was the last bastion keeping shirt from falling completely open. Through the haze of his pleasant buzz, Martin watched Tim’s adam’s apple jump, and his trapezius muscle strain beneath his tan skin. He didn’t feel too bad about this, because Sasha was also watching, her thumbnail between her teeth.

At their high table in the corner, the thump of music was loud but not overpowering, just distant enough that they didn’t have to fully shout to hear each other. Sasha had suggested dancing, but getting from the bar to their table with his drinks in hand had been more than enough excitement for Martin. Shot done, he found his edges blurred pleasantly, though that made the vivid club lights skew kaleidoscopic.

“Martin!” Tim leaned forward and pointed over Martin’s shoulder. “Twink at two o’ clock! They’re making absolute eyes at you!”

With a squeak, Martin turned to where Tim was pointing. A willowy, androgynous person leaned at the bar, a glass hanging from their limp hand and their face turned in Martin’s direction. With his glasses perched on his head, he couldn't make out much about them, and turned back to his coworkers before anyone could think he’d been staring.

“W- it- obviously they’re looking at you, Tim.”

Sasha sighed and threw her arm over the back of Tim’s chair. “Oh, Martin. You’re very sweet, but you’re very daft.”

“Thank you, Sasha. I also _look_ very daft, so I doubt anyone in here is picking me over Tim.”

Immediately Tim started to boo, and gave an emphatic thumbs down. “No self-deprecation at Friday drinks, Martin! You just need to get out there! I’m sure any number of people here would love the attention of a very polite bear.”

Martin sputtered. “I’m not a bear!”

“Alright, Paddington.”

“That’s- that isn’t even a sexy bear! Not that I would be- I’m not!”

“Bear,” Tim said firmly, pointing at Martin. He turned the finger on himself. “Twunk.” He pointed at Sasha—

“Careful.”

“Classic beauty for the ages! I was going to say classic beauty for the ages!”

“Mmhmm.”

“Oh my god,” Martin said at his beer, eyes widening, “ _am_ I a bear?”

The other two burst into giggles. Martin watched them, and couldn’t quite feel the satisfaction of making them laugh. There was something about being on this side of the table, watching them lean into each other with those great, indulgent smiles, and knowing distinctly that he was on the outside. They were both beautiful, confident, and witty. And funny, too- Tim in his aggressive way, all syrupy sarcasm and undisguised amusement, and Sasha with her sly comments and innocent observations. They were both just so… charming, in a way that Martin knew from experience couldn’t be learned. A cynical part of him wondered if the “it” factor they had was just being thin and pretty, but that wasn’t fair. Hell, if being thin and pretty made a person likable, Jon would have been the most pleasant person in the office.

That thought made him giggle, first just a few titters, then an overwhelming fit that had him shoving the remains of his drinks out of the way so that he could lay his head on the table, where no one could see him go completely red as he laughed.

“Whoa! Share the joke, Marto?”

He shook his head into his sleeve, and teared up a bit.

“You good?” That was Sasha, her fingertips brushing his elbow.

He nodded. Gradually he broke free of the hiccuping gasps and lifted his head, feeling suddenly very dizzy. He dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve, breathing the high “ah,” that always felt obligatory after a good laugh.

Tim tipped forward one of Martin’s empty beer bottles and peered into it with an eye comically squinted. “What have you been drinking?”

“I was just-” Martin giggled again, and passed a hand over his face to catch it. “I was just thinking about Jon.”

Sasha’s eyes widened. “Jon! What’s funny about Jon?”

Martin snorted. “Nothing.” Sasha giggled at him—

(and later he would try to remember what he saw, the quality of her smile, the way she held herself, how she liked to dress, and he would come up empty, and then eventually he would stop trying, and would work not to think of her at all)

—and he couldn’t help but smile back. She had a way of putting him at ease. “Hey, Sash?”

“Mm?”

“Does he- does Jon fancy you?”

Tim’s eyes went wide, and that was all the warning Martin got before both he and Sasha burst into shrieking laughter. Even with the throb of music around them, several people looked their way.

Martin’s ears rang. “He- you’re- you’re the only one he‘s nice to!” He knew he was squealing at this point, but there was nothing for it.

Clutching her stomach, Sasha blinked tear-filled eyes at him. “Yeah, but- but have you considered that-” -she snorted- “-that Tim is a bastard?”

Tim fell forward, his elbow lodged on Sasha’s shoulder, wheezing for air. “I am!”

Martin groaned and pulled at his hair, almost knocking his glasses off his head. “What about me? What did I do?”

Tim wiped at his eyes, then tossed a dismissive gesture. “Probably nothing! That’s just his way. I’d say the promotion is getting to him, but- heh- he’s always been a bit of a prick.”

Shoving Tim off, Sasha hopped down from her chair. “I’m getting water,” she declared, and fanned herself as she elbowed into the crowd.

Martin watched her fold into the crush of bodies, then sighed. “He can’t be happy,” he mumbled.

Tim leaned in to hear him over the music. “What?”

“Just- Jon can’t be upset all the time for no reason, can he? Maybe something’s- wrong?”

“Other than the weight of modern adult life, and the giant lemon he sucks every morning?”

Martin found himself frowning at that, and twisted his fingers. “Should we have invited him?”

With a roll of his eyes, Tim downed the slurry of cocktail and melted ice at the bottom of his glass. “Nah. He would’ve said no, anyway.” His eyes widened, as if in great terror. “And imagine if he’d said yes!”

“Wouldn’t have been that bad,” Martin mumbled.

“What?”

Martin raised his voice. “Do you even know if he’s- erm-?”

“Queer? Who knows.” Tim shrugged, glancing out over the crowd. “I want to say he’s straight, but I just assume all uncool people are straight. Why? You get a vibe?”

“I- don’t know? I can’t picture him being- I don’t know, sweet?- with anyone.”

Tim’s lips curled back over a devil’s grin, and he leaned forward on his elbows, eyebrows lilting. “Not everyone likes it sweet, Martin.”

Martin choked.

Blessedly, Sasha emerged from the crowd at that moment, holding three glasses of water. She slid them onto the table and snickered.

“Tim, what are you doing to poor Martin?”

“Nothing!” He winked and sat up straight again. “We’re debating.”

“Oh?”

“Jon. Queer, or no?”

Sasha hummed. “Well, statistically, you’d think there would be one straight person in our department.”

“But,” Tim lifted a finger, “we do flock together.”

“True! Hmm.” She tapped at her chin, gazing off into the gyrating throng. “Could be bi. I think he dated a woman at uni.”

“How do you know that?”

“Old facebook pictures. You know he was alt?’

“He was _alt_!?” Martin squeaked, at the same time as Tim cried, “He accepted your friend request!?”

Sasha just sat back and loudly sipped her water. “I’ve said too much. I shouldn’t share secrets with those whose requests he has deigned not to accept.”

Tim booed her, which was apparently something he did often a few drinks in, and slumped in his seat. “Well,” he sighed, “another mystery for the pile. So far, that’s ‘is he straight,’ ‘why is he an arsehole,’ and ‘how does he not have any other social media.’”

It hit Martin all at once that they’d just been sat there speaking ill of Jon for the past several minutes, and for a moment, he felt he should say something. The reflex was old, a holdover from his school days when he’d stood between smaller kids and their tormentors, daring them with his size alone to try something. But this wasn’t playground politics, and Jon—

Jon actually _was_ an arsehole.

Martin generally gave people the benefit of the doubt, and then he gave that doubt a lot of room to work. He was still sure that there was more to Jon than he let on, because of course there was. Every person was just a walking amalgamation of their own traumas, softened or blunted or sharpened depending on how they chose to cope and live and grow. It was likely that something very specific made Jon like that.

But he was still _like that_. He was rude, presumptive, condescending, and short with everyone. And he singled out Martin specifically. He had no illusions that he was the perfect worker, given that he had literally lied his way into the position, but he was decent, damn it. Even when he did things right, Jon barely acknowledged it. When he did them wrong, Jon was snide and belittling. And that was just to his face! Martin had heard things Jon muttered about him to the tape recorders, or even to Tim and Sasha (though they, unlike the recorders, usually came to his defense). At this point, he almost had to call it cruel.

So why, oh bloody _why_ was he sitting in a bar, with people he hesitantly called friends, using his Friday night to think about Jon of all people?

He knew why. Of course he knew. That trauma that everyone carried was on his back too, and he understood every wretched joint and hooked claw that weighed him down. Not that he knew what to do with it. He tried to keep his chin up. He did his best to be kind in spite of the upbringing that tried to kick that kindness out of him.

And, apparently, he developed feelings for the cruel-tongued boss who would sooner drive him to tears than treat him with anything approaching fondness.

“Aw, Martin, I never thought you’d be a sad drunk.”

Martin came back to his seat, where the dreadful plastic of the chair had left his arse numb and his back stiff. He’d slumped down onto the table at some point, apparently, and Sasha watched him with her head in her hands, expression adrift between concern and amusement.

“M’not,” Martin muttered. “Where’s Tim?”

“Getting lucky.” Sasha rolled her eyes. “Picked up that twink, you know, from before? They _did_ have their eyes on you first, by the way. But you know Tim.”

“Pretty, charming Tim,” Martin muttered, and Sasha snorted.

“Ohhhkay. I see that we’ve got past the fun part of the evening. Let’s get you in a cab, Martin.”

Shaking his head (and immediately regretting it), Martin flapped a hand at her. “No, no. I’m fine. I’ve made it home far more pissed than this.”

“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should,” Sasha tutted, and was suddenly beside him, taking him by the arm. “Come on. Bedtime for Martin.”

“Don’t call me Marto.”

Sasha laughed. “I didn’t.”

“Oh.”

The night air hit him in a burst of lucidity, bringing him around to the lively reality of the Soho evening. Chatter and laughter hung thick overhead. As Martin tipped his glasses back onto his face, detail erupted on the brightly dressed queer people brushing past on their way into Prism, their eyes glittering and skin still speckled with acne. Martin watched them, and actually felt as old as he’d said he was on his CV.

“Sasha, I’m really fine. You don’t have to—”

“Nope!” She patted his arm, which she’d taken the liberty of folding into hers. “It’s principal now. I’m a gentleman.”

“Really, Sasha. Go back and have fun. I’m fine.”

“You know that every time you say ‘fine,’ I believe it less, right?”

Martin chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I’m _good_ , then. Brilliant. Euphatic.”

“Euphatic?”

“Okay- yeah- I heard it as I said it. I meant euphoric- right? Yeah, euphoric.”

“Now I have to stick around, just to see what other words you come up with.” She smirked, and Martin sighed, but he relented.

It was, at the very least, easier for a beautiful woman to hail a cab than it was for Martin by his lonesome. Once one was stopped and the destination discussed, Sasha put him in the back with a hand on his head like a cop on an arrest. She ruffled his hair as she let him go, and he magnanimously allowed her.

“Hey, Martin.” She bent down in the open door, elbow on the frame above her head. “It’s alright to be a sad drunk. Just make sure to drink fluids and get your sleep.”

Martin smiled at her. “Thanks, Sasha.”

The ride passed mostly in silence, and Martin let his eyes unfocus, softening the city lights into fuzzy geometry. The tumble of shape and colour hit that weak, romantic place in his sternum, and he found himself awash in fragments of poetry that his alcohol-slick mind would never retain long enough to render to paper.

It was for the best that the words were fleeting. Far too many concerned cutting brown eyes, and a liquid voice that would never conceive a kind word for a man like Martin.

* * *

“I made tea,” Jon says in the morning. “There’s no milk, obviously, but I put two sugars in, if that’s alright?” He sets the mug on the table before Martin, the line between his brows digging far deeper than the situation requires.

Martin cut back to one sugar months ago, but that in no way impedes his smile. “That’s great, Jon. Thanks.”

Waving off the gratitude, Jon retrieves a second mug and pulls out a chair for himself. Martin notes the stiffness as he sits, though it’s not nearly pronounced as last night. Jon’s eyes flutter shut as he sips his tea, then he cradles it to his chest with a sigh. The sight is novel, bordering on fanciful: Jon with a thin throw wrapping his shoulders, his disheveled strands of grey shocked silver by hazy morning light through the kitchen window, his shoulders actually relaxed to a place below his ears.

Jon catches him looking, and Martin doesn’t feel the need to turn away. A small smile creeps from one side of Jon’s mouth to the other, laced in meaning, like everything his desperately earnest face does. The meaning feels like affection, but Martin has long since learned to keep his wishful thinking out of his efforts to interpret Jon, so he attributes it to the lazy warmth of the kitchen.

“Guess we’ll have to head down the village to find breakfast, then?”

Jon’s eyebrows set quite seriously. “Daisy has plenty of canned pears.”

“Hard pass on all canned fruit, thank you.”

“And here I thought it was your favourite.” Jon smirks.

Martin makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Just get your walking shoes,” he says, and resists the urge to brush his fingers over Jon’s shoulder as he heads back to their room.

(Their room. God.)

It isn’t until they leave the cabin and stroll a good distance into the still, grey morning, that the Lonely beckons to Martin. It’s in the hints of clinging fog, light-laced wisps on the distant cusps of trees and hills, like sentient things curled in wait of passersby. It wouldn’t be so bad, to be taken by The One Alone out here. This is a beauty specific to human scarcity, and to consume it alone would be the only way to do it justice, short of leaving it untarnished entirely. It is gentle, here, in the lap of living green, sheltered beneath a sky several shades shy of blue. Safe. Safer than Martin has felt in a long, long time.

Without a word, Jon’s hand slides into his. Martin sinks back into the crunch of his boots in the dirt, and looks down to find his body returning gradually to full opacity.

“Don’t want you wandering off,” Jon says, carefully brisk. Martin wants to bring Jon’s hand to his lips and press a kiss to the warped brand of Jude Perry’s ire. He doesn’t.

The walk into town takes about an hour and a half, though Martin guesses it might’ve taken half that if Jon’s leg weren’t still giving him trouble. (Martin asked, on their way, when Jon had stopped going to physical therapy. Jon scoffed and said that it fell by the wayside around the time he was accused of murder. Martin dropped it.)

 _Quaint_ is the word that lingers with Martin as he and Jon quietly peruse the shopfronts in the cobblestoned downtown area. It’s probably a bit demeaning to think of a place where people actually live as quaint, but flower boxes hang on almost every windowsill, so he really can’t help it. When Martin’s attention catches on a kitschy local wares shop, Jon only sighs a bit upon being dragged in.

“I’m not carrying that for you,” Jon says dryly as the old woman at the till rings up Martin’s purchase. She shoots Jon a bit of a look.

Martin smirks. “It’s a mug, Jon. Think I’ve got it.” It’s handmade and painted with a tiny, startlingly rich recreation of the surrounding valley. Some part of Martin suggests that it’s a foolish purchase given the single day he has to look at it, but it’s a good mug in its own right, and he tells himself that it’s important to support local artists. Jon ends up taking it from him before they even leave the shop, turning it slowly as he frowns in concentration at the detail. That, in itself, is worth what Martin paid.

Their experience in town is quite pleasant, right up until Martin finds himself witness to Jonathan Sims shopping for food. He watches in fascinated horror, aware that his jaw has dropped and his mouth is caught in a half-smile, as Jon mutters to himself and tosses items seemingly at random into the basket Martin holds for him. For someone who makes a sport of disparaging processed food, Jon has surprisingly little trouble snatching up boxed instant meals and prepackaged goods that won’t expire for another decade. To his credit, he also picks up produce, (though to his detriment, the “produce” consists only of a single carrot, a punnet of overripe strawberries, and as many parsnips as he can grab by the stems with one hand). Martin lets this continue until Jon reaches for ramen noodles, at which point it becomes a moral obligation to intervene.

“Jon, did you have a menu in mind, or—?”

“A menu?” His thick brows pinch as if Martin has suggested they subsist solely on beans.

“I mean, if we plan what we’re going to eat, we can be sure to have everything we need, yeah? Unless you want to walk back here in a few days.”

Jon shakes his head once, sharply, as if dislodging the idea from his mind. “I wouldn’t leave you alone.”

A lump rises into Martin’s throat. He shoves it down, where it makes his lungs feel tight instead. “Okay, well. Let’s, uh, regroup? I have a few go-to dishes that I’m good at, and I’m a pretty quick study. Anything you like that I could make?”

“I _do_ know how to cook,” Jon interjects, and the sudden prickle of it makes Martin laugh.

“Is that so? D’you have any corroborating witnesses? Evidence?”

Jon sputters indignantly.

“Thought so! Discredited.” Martin sticks out his tongue, and remembers what it’s like to feel giddy.

Once he’s cajoled Jon back from the edge of acrimony and into polite conversation, they plan their menu right there in front of the instant noodles. They settle on a few meals with ingredients that they can purchase in bulk, then prepare on a rotating basis. Jon’s eyes light up as he talks about modifying a family haleem recipe for their vegetarian needs, and something in Martin twists at the idea of such a simple thing seeming so novel to Jon. Then, slowly, that something untwists as he imagines cooking with Jon, forcing him to slow down, to spend time on something for himself, to make and consume and just… be a person.

Not that Martin knows a ton about that, these days, but he’ll do his best.

“Alright,” he sighs, once they’ve refilled their basket, and he has a few boxes of cereal under his arm besides. “Anything else you can think of?”

“Oh.” Jon’s mouth pinches to one side in consideration. “Yes.” Without elaboration, he leads Martin toward the back of the shop. He brings them before a selection of spirits, and Martin frowns at the gleaming facets of the bottles for a moment before he understands.

“For, ah, the-” Jon draws a breath. “For the nerves, tomorrow.”

Martin nods, vacant. “Yes, I, uh, I got that.”

“You don’t have to—”

“No, it’s a good idea.” He chews at his lip, then nods at the cheapest whiskey on the shelf. “When in Rome?” he says, trying to smile.

Jon does not smile back. He just nods and grabs the bottle, then wedges it into their basket. Martin tries not to think about it.

They buy a few canvas bags on their way out, and Martin carries one in each hand while Jon holds onto the painted mug, both palms tight around it as if it’s full of tea.

Next, Jon takes them by the library. It’s a small affair in an aged building, the kind with tight doorways and too-close shelves that Martin knows his elbows will knock into, and ancient wooden floors that will groan when he puts his weight on them. He always feels claustrophobic in places like that, and he tells Jon as much after he leans his head in to look around.

“We don’t have to go in,” Jon says immediately.

“No, no, you go in. I’ll just sit out here.”

“Martin—”

“Jon,” he says, mimicking Jon’s tone. “I have to get used to being by myself eventually.”

Jon frowns and works his jaw quite spectacularly at that, then sighs. “No, no, you’re right. I’ll- I’ll be quick, alright?”

“Sure.”

A bench sits empty across the street, peeling green planks over a wrought iron frame, and Martin crosses to settle on it with a heavy sigh. He drops the two grocery bags on the seat next to him, fully aware that he’s doing it to keep anyone from joining him, and only a bit guilty about it. Though the grey sky gives no indication of it, the hour nears noon, so pedestrians trickle past at a steady rate. There are fewer cars here than he’s used to, leaving the absence of noise pollution to relax something in him that has likely been tight since he first moved to London.

A ways down the road, several people stand in front of what might be a community center. A group of men have gathered there, laughter occasionally slipping downwind from their animated cluster. Two women lean against the brick next to the door, taking turns looking between the sky and each other. And by the door, there stands an old man, completely alone.

(The old man’s home, if it can be called that without her laughter lingering over the garden, sits just far enough into the highlands that he knows the journey into town won’t be possible much longer. There are any number of kind young people who would help him if he asked, but he won’t ask. No, when his legs fail, he’ll let them. He’ll sink into the couch, into the quilts that she worked on until the arthritis brought her to tears, and he will not move again. He won’t touch the radio or the television. He will not weep for her; he has done that already. In the quiet, Forsaken by connection and human touch, he will not notice the gathering fog- or perhaps he will, and he will simply welcome it. The house will stand empty after that, and children will adopt it into their trove of ghost stories. They will not remember his name.)

“Oh! Shite!”

Martin jerks to with a shout. Someone has just sat on him, and she tramples his feet as she scrambles off. She stumbles a few steps back, clutching her purse to her chest, eyes huge and cheeks ruddy with apparent mortification.

“Shite, sorry,” she says, “I didn’t see you! Fucking scared me, jesus.”

Martin laughs. It is high and hysterical, and the woman rightfully takes another step back from him. “No, no, it’s fine! It’s fine, you’re fine!”

“Um, right.” She shivers hard enough that she almost drops the purse, then rushes off with a final muttered apology.

When Martin looks down at himself, the only reaction he can manage is a resigned huff. He curls and splays his fingers, watching the white of his cuticles and his dimpled knuckles sharpen into reality. Fog spills slow and languid off of him, curling down the pavement and into the street. Reaching, he realises, for the old man.

“Nope,” he says through his teeth, “we’re not doing that.” He stands and snatches his bags up with him, back resolutely turned to his would-be victim, and marches across the street to the library.

Jon is not there. Martin checks up and down each row to be sure, heartbeat hiking higher for every vacant shelf he squeezes between. He calls Jon’s name loudly as he dares. An old lady looks up from the nonfiction selection to shush him. He apologises profusely.

“Hi, sorry,” he says, stumbling up to the front desk. “I’m looking for a man who was in here a bit ago? Uh, short, Pakistani? Kind of, uh—”

“English?” the librarian offers, frowning.

“Yes! Yeah. Did he—?”

“He ran out the back door ‘bout a half hour ago.”

Martin tenses. “By ‘ran,’ you mean..?”

“Full sprint,” another librarian says, leaning around a corner. “Almost knocked over the children’s display.”

“Oh. Okay, um, thanks, I’ve gotta—” Martin turns and does his best to resist a full sprint of his own. He bursts out of the back door into a small community garden. Jon is not there.

“Fuck,” he says, and then quieter, fiercer, “ _fuck_.” He checks up and down the street. No Jon. Ducks into shops, pubs, any door that will open. Nothing. He starts looking behind and between buildings, trying to take regular breaths and failing utterly.

The firefly flicker of a cigarette ember catches his eye. He doubles back, and there’s Jon: leaned against the brick of a damp alleyway, halfway through a cig, and visibly shaking.

“Jon! Christ, you scared me! Are you okay?”

Jon nods, and the cigarette jitters against his lips. The painted mug hangs limply from his other hand, the first joints of his fingers barely hooked on the handle.

Suddenly Martin needs to collapse. The groceries slide from his fingers, and he drops against the wall next to Jon. The brick bites his shoulders through his hoodie. “God, Jon! Don’t do that to me again.”

Jon closes his eyes, then clenches his teeth and sighs through them. “I, uh, I’m sorry, Martin. I-I am.”

“Well- it’s fine, it’s fine, just,” Martin wipes a hand over his face, “what happened?”

Eyes still shut, Jon’s brow pinches. “The, uh, the old woman in-in-in the library. She, uh- sh-she had a statement.”

Martin freezes. “You didn’t—”

“No.” Jon says it heavily, weakly. “I-I looked at her, and I just, I Knew, a-and then I realised I was walking towards her, a-and I, uh, I…” His hand trembles, but he manages to take a drag. He exhales through his nose, and Martin thinks, stupidly, of his childhood copy of _The Hobbit_ , and the twin columns of smoke that rose from the nostrils of Smaug on the cover.

“You ran,” Martin finishes softly.

Jon laughs: a sharp, bitter bark. “I ran.”

“That’s good, Jon.”

Jon huffs.

“It _is_.”

“I know.” Jon presses a hand to his face; the tendons stand tense beneath the knuckles, and Martin notices that the nails are chewed, jagged, to the quick. “I know.”

Carefully, Martin reaches for the cigarette. Jon lets him take it, though his face sours as Martin flicks it to the concrete and twists it beneath his heel. “If we survive this mess and you die of lung cancer, I’ll be very cross.”

Jon’s chuckle is genuine this time, though his smile is tired and doesn’t make it to his eyes. “What should I die of, then?”

“Isn’t old age usually the goal?”

“Ugh. I don’t want to get old.”

“You _are_ old.” Martin finds himself with a lock of grey between his fingers, lifting it gently away from Jon’s cheek for corroboration.

Jon glances at him sidelong, then rolls his eyes and bats Martin’s hand away. “If you’re done insulting me, we really should buy supplies for tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Martin feels instantly ill. “Um, right.”

The pharmacy is modest, but that doesn't prevent Jon from shoving half of the available wound care supplies into his basket. Gauze, compress dressings, adhesive cloth tape, TCP, plasters. Martin watches him, numb.

“You alright?” Mercifully, Jon doesn’t look at Martin as he asks, just continues comparing the tubes of antibiotic ointment in each hand.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“I didn’t think to look in Daisy’s first-aid kit before we left.” Jon frowns, and tosses both the ointments in their basket. “Better over than under-prepared.”

“Sure.” Martin watches Jon select a set of tiny, wicked-sharp scissors, and can feel himself going pale. “Um, do you… do you have an idea of how we should do it?

Jon does look at him then, just a glance before turning back to the shelves. “I saw an ice pick in Daisy’s closet.”

Martin actually staggers. “Christ.”

“...Yes.” Jon clears his throat. “I-I wish I had a better solution. Eric was right: Gertrude would have known just the right dose of acid, or, or something- a way to do it elegantly, but I just- I’m out of my depth as _usual_ —”

“Jon, it’s okay. This was never going to be pleasant.” Martin sighs. “And as much as I don’t like the sound of the, uhm,” he swallows through his tightening throat, “ice pick… I’d rather get it done in one go than get partially blinded by acid, and then have to go for in _more_ acid.”

“I always like a bit of extra acid.”

“Jon.”

“Sorry.” Jon has the decency to look contrite. “If it’s any consolation, I was able to See the inside of Melanie’s leg when I removed the bullet from her. I’m confident I’ll be able to do the same with you, and myself when the time comes.”

Martin tenses. “Whoa. Jon, you don’t have to- I can take care of it. I’m not asking you to do that.”

Finally Jon faces him fully, and he does so with the full force of his scowl. “Oh, I’m sorry, Martin, can you see into your own skull?”

“No, but—” His hands tremble around the straps of the grocery bags. “It just- I don’t feel like that’s something I should put onto you.”

“I’m volunteering, Martin. And if we’re just basing this on how we _feel_ , then I would feel like a right useless prick making you do something dangerous to yourself that I could handle far more safely.”

Jon has not shouted, but Martin feels rather like he has. His chin quivers, and he bites the inside of his mouth against it.

Then, wilting a bit, he sighs. “No, you’re… You’re right.” Maybe he expects Jon to look vindicated, but he just seems sad. Martin glances away from it. “You’re right. But I-I don’t like it.”

“I know.” Jon reaches out, and his fingers brush the back of Martin’s hand. “I don’t like it, either. I wouldn’t…” he sighs, shaky and laced with Silk Cut. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you, Martin. At least-” he scoffs darkly, “-any more than I have already.”

Martin imagines their groceries tumbling across the scuffed pharmacy tile, forgotten as he throws his arms around Jon. His fingers twitch with it.

Instead, he says, “It’s okay, Jon. I trust you.”

If Jon’s smile trembles a bit, neither of them mention it.

Their final grim errand completed, they start back towards the cabin. This time, Jon succumbs to a full limp by the halfway point, and doesn’t even protest when Martin takes the bag of medical supplies from him. Martin shifts his whole load to one shoulder so that he can offer a free arm for support, and Jon falls into it. A foul feeling leeches off of him, at once like feedback and static and the touch of a battery on Martin’s tongue, though he doesn’t quite know with which sense he perceives it.

Once they’re in the door, Martin divests himself of the shopping bags crowded onto his shoulder (he’s going to be so far out of alignment tomorrow, but oh well), and walks straight to the bedroom without a word. He returns with the folder that Basira gave them, the elastics dangling from his hand, already flipping through the statements. “Does the date matter?”

Jon, leaning heavily by the door where Martin left him, wrinkles his nose. “Fear doesn’t expire.” Then he glances off and grimaces. “Sorry. Just whatever I’ve got on top.”

“Okay.” Martin takes out the first statement. When he looks up, a tape recorder sits on the coffee table. He doesn’t miss the way that Jon smiles at it, softly, like a pet.

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon’s hand lingers on Martin’s palm as he takes the statement. Martin tells himself it’s for balance.

Once Jon has shut himself into the bedroom and the formless murmur of his narration begins, Martin allows himself to collapse forward onto the counter. He laughs, that same pitchy, mad sound from earlier, and digs his fingers into his hair.

At this time yesterday, he was staring at spreadsheets in his office, and Jon was little more to him than a twinge of distant pain when his mind wandered. Now here he is, staring at the groceries they bought together, and trying to decide what he’ll make them for lunch.

He decides on a salad, because he wants it to be ready for Jon when he finishes his statement. Might as well use the perishables at their freshest.

After about twenty minutes, the hairs on the back of Martin’s neck stand down, and Jon leaves the bedroom looking a little better. There’s a warmth to his skin tone instead of an encroaching green, and the shakes seem to have passed. They don’t talk much as they eat, but that’s fine. Jon thanks Martin before and after the meal, and rises to wash his dishes when he’s finished.

A moment later, Jon sets his plate in the drying rack with an odd gravity. “Martin.”

Martin looks up. “Hm?”

“I was, ah... hoping that before tomorrow, you might like to- th-that is, if you could- if you wanted to—”

“Jon,” Martin says firmly, hoping to ground him. His heart races.

Jon turns to lean his hands behind him on the sink, and looks Martin in the eye. “Would you cut my hair?”

Martin’s brain grinds to a halt. “Sorry, what?”

“It’s just-” Jon twists his hand into his hair, salt-and-pepper split ends splaying around his still-damp fingers, “during the coma, it really- and then I’ve hardly had time—”

“Sure,” Martin says, still reeling a bit. “Yeah, yes, I’ll cut it for you. Can’t promise it won’t be rubbish, but.” He smiles as fully as he can manage.

Sighing in clear relief, Jon returns the smile, though thinner. “That’s excellent. Thank you, Martin.” He looks down, then back up skittishly, drawing a small breath. “And I could cut yours, if you like?”

“Oh. Oh! Is it, erm—?“

“I meant—”

“—if you think—”

“No! I just—” Jon sucks a breath through his teeth, then exhales a lost sort of laugh. “No. Sorry. You look very nice, Martin. I was just thinking- ah, transactionally.” He wrings his burned hand, twisting his fingers along the shiny grooves.

Martin’s heart flutters, and he clears his throat to pull his voice into a register that won’t be damningly high. “I don’t mind just doing things for you, Jon. I think we’re at that point.”

“Oh. I, uh, suppose we are.”

And then they’re just in the kitchen staring at each other. Jon’s lips part around some sort of false start, then he looks away and clears his throat.

“Well. We should—”

“Yeah! Yes. I’ll find some scissors?”

“Right, good.”

They get a chair dragged into the bathroom, which is so small that Martin almost stumbles backwards into the ugly green tub twice. (Jon asks if he’s alright the first time, and laughs at him the second.) Once Jon gets seated, Martin squeezes behind him and does his best to shield him in towels. When he looks up to consult the mirror on how he’s done with the front, he sees how small Jon looks seated before him, and tenses a bit. He can’t help but feel conspicuous in his bulk, desperately ungainly with so little room to work. But then his eyes meet Jon’s through the faint black tarnishing of the mirror, and Jon treats him to such a calm, trusting smile that he doesn’t quite remember what he was thinking of before.

“Alright,” Martin sighs, and only feels a tad embarrassed about the airy quality of his voice. “I’ve cut my own hair quite a lot-” Jon’s eyebrows shoot up “—yes, I know, no comments please—which means that I’m used to working with more of an, um, artsy look that tries very hard to say ‘I’m really quite gay’? Which I’m guessing isn’t what you want.”

“Your guess would be right.”

“Okay, so I’ll just, what, cut the ponytail off to start?”

Jon nods. Martin gives him a little grin, because if he doesn’t release some of the surreal giddiness flowering within him he’s going to die, then he hooks his finger into Jon’s ragged hair tie and pulls. After a day in a haphazard bun, the silver-shot black waves drop into stiff, erratic shapes, but they yield gradually to the efforts of Martin’s hands and a wet comb. It is not lost on him that as soon as he gets his fingers into Jon’s hair, those restless eyes flicker shut. And maybe, because it’s been a long- well- a long two years, Martin takes more time than strictly necessary to work his way through the occasional tangle.

Beneath his hands, Jon… melts. It’s quite a thing to watch: the angles of his shoulders round out, and his socked feet slide slowly across the tile until his knees come unbent. But then Martin sneaks a glance up for Jon’s expression, and what he sees wrings his chest tight. The sum of Jon’s frown lines are out in full, his brows drawn in and up, chest almost sunken as he exhales. Martin opens his mouth to ask if Jon’s alright, and that is when Jon, perhaps unconsciously, lets his head fall slightly back to rest against the curve of Martin’s middle. And that’s when Martin puts a name to the emotion he’s seeing:

Relief.

He wonders how many harmful hands have besieged Jon since someone last touched him in kindness. (Too many. No matter the number, too many.) He feels Jon leaning against him and sobers with the responsibility of it, of being able to touch a man so close to coming apart at his edges, to choose whether he heals or unravels.

After a moment, he gets Jon’s brushed hair into a low, uniform pony. “Alright,” he says, and finds his voice scratched and high. “You ready for the chop?”

Jon’s eyes open and he sits forward immediately, clearing his throat. “I, uh- yes. Yes, I’m ready.” He settles slightly into the chair, then sighs. “You know, I am going to miss it.”

Martin stops, scissors in hand. “Your hair?”

“Mm. It’s a nice length.”

Martin lowers the scissors. “Hold on, sorry, why would you want it cut if you like it how it is?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I just- I’ve never let it get this long before, I suppose?”

“That’s a dumb reason.”

Jon scoffs. “Well- maybe. It’s also hard to care for.”

“I could help you,” Martin says before he thinks about it. “Uh- I can braid?”

“Oh. W-really?”

“Um, yeah? I’m not bad.” He braided his mum's hair until she wouldn't let him anymore. He braided his own, when he was young. He had it braided, in fact, the day he took matters (and a pair of safety scissors) into his own hands, and gave himself the close-cropped cut his mum hadn't allowed.

Jon’s hands appear from beneath the towel and fidget for a moment in his lap, spidery things twitching like autonomous creatures. Then he nods, and looks at Martin that way that he’s been looking more and more since they got here.

“I would love that,” he says softly.

Martin swallows. “Oh? Okay, cool. D’you want- uh, right now?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. Just maybe, uh, somewhere—”

“Somewhere that you won’t trip and be concussed in a bathtub from the seventies?”

Martin tugs reproachfully at a lock of Jon’s hair, even as a laugh flutters out of him. “Yes, that.”

They end up on the couch, sat sideways. Jon sits cross-legged with his back carefully straight, and Martin settles behind him with one leg folded in front of himself, and the other crooked off the side of the couch. He is dreadfully, completely aware of the warmth of Jon’s lower back against his shin.

On a whim, Martin closes his eyes as he lifts the brush to begin. He’ll need to learn how to do it like this, anyway. He does well enough, cracking one eye for intermittent glances at his progress. Jon’s hair falls to the peak of his scapulae, just long enough that it’ll stay in a nice half-braid, loose enough to sleep in. Jon goes a bit limp as the minutes pass, his whole frame slackening. He keeps sighing, soft and long, and the sound is dear to Martin’s heart.

“Is there anything you’d like to do?” Jon asks after a while, voice smooth and easy.

“Hm?”

“Anything you’d like to see before tomorrow, I mean.”

 _You_ , Martin thinks, and almost laughs aloud at himself. “I’m… not sure?”

“Mm. There doesn’t have to be anything,” Jon murmurs. “Just wondered.”

After a bit of thought and a few more crossed segments of hair, Martin says, “Oh, duh. The sunrise, obviously.”

He can hear Jon’s smile. “Alright. We’ll watch the sunrise.”

“Should we set an alarm?”

Jon hums in consideration. “No. No, I don’t think so. I’ll Know.”

Martin chuckles. “Naturally.”

* * *

In the morning, of course, it rains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs:  
> -Martin dissociates due to the Lonely several times throughout the present-tense sections  
> -In the 6th section, Jon and Martin discuss what method they will use to blind Martin. The conversation is not graphic, but an ice pick and acid are mentioned as options.
> 
> \---
> 
> listen, did i mean for this chapter to clock in over 40 pages and triple ch 1 in length? i did not. but here we are. next chapters probably won't be so bloated, but who knows. i jumped into this fic with way less prep than usual... jonmartin brainrot is real


	3. into the wilderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: this chapter won't be as long  
> also me: adds 2000 words about omelettes to the agenda
> 
> TWs: eye gouging + all that entails, discussion of self-harm/disordered eating, brief mention of domestic abuse  
> (please visit the end notes for more details)

When Martin wakes to rain playing atonal scales against the windowpane, all he can do is lie there and laugh.

Jon lifts up on his elbows, blinking blearily. His eyes clear a bit, and his brow immediately dips. “Oh.” He turns a pitying look on Martin. “We could wait—”

“No,” Martin sighs. He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “No, we- we shouldn't put it off.”

For a moment, in the near dark, Martin thinks he sees a hint of silver-green reflected behind Jon’s irises, a glimpse of a nocturnal creature. Then he closes his eyes and nods, as if coming to a decision. His voice is gentle, when he says, “Whatever you think is best, Martin.”

Jon offers to make breakfast, but Martin cannot fathom just sitting on his hands right now, so he takes that mantle for his own. He finds himself reaching for the brightest tomato in the dubious bowl they’d cleaned for produce. It looks almost artificial in the soft pink of his palm, like the plastic toy food his mum had foisted on him as a child.

He takes a simple, grounding pleasure from dicing it, then selects an onion for the same treatment. Jon leans up against the counter on the other side of the range, face as soft and creased as his sleep-rumpled _WTG?_ shirt.

“Omelette?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I- uh. Anything I can do to help?” The question comes so timidly that Martin has to still the knife for a moment and look at Jon. Hunched over the cutting board as Martin is, he finds their eyes level. Jon looks suddenly young, eyes huge and searching, picking viciously at the edge of his thumb like he thinks Martin could possibly tell him no.

“Of-of course! Yeah, you could whisk the eggs? Four, if you don’t mind?”

Jon straightens with the purpose and gives a little nod of assent. He sets about finding a bowl, and gives it a hearty scrub while Martin continues with the onion. His eyes sting. He tries very hard not to extrapolate that into an omen for the rest of his day.

Jon sets up next to him at the counter, close enough for their elbows to brush. He wields the eggs with a surprising ease, cracking them each on the side of the bowl with an elegant one-handed maneuver.

“Show-off,” Martin mutters, and Jon arches his brow.

“I told you I can cook,” he says coolly. “Worry about your vegetables.”

Martin smiles, and worries about his vegetables. He gets the fire going, then uses the knife to scrape the sliced onion into a pan, and follows that with a splash of olive oil. Though he can’t crack an egg one-handed, he can caramelise a mean onion, and he intends to do so. Eggs prepared, Jon leans his elbows on the counter and watches the browning onion sizzle with a single-minded focus. For the first few minutes, it’s endearing.

After almost ten, it’s concerning.

“Big onion fan?” Martin asks, hoping his tone is conversational.

“Hm? Oh.” Jon seems to come back to himself, dilated pupils shrinking as he straightens up. “No, I-uh, hah, I was down a bit of a rabbit hole, I suppose.”

“Oh?” Martin looks at the pan, unsure what Jon will do if faced directly. Won’t do to spook him. “Anything in particular?”

Jon shrugs. “Not really.” He truly is an awful liar.

Martin gives himself permission to drop it. If Jon doesn’t want to talk to him, that’s- well, after the past four months, that’s fair, isn’t it? He feels the tightening of guilt in his throat, and keeps his eyes firmly on his efforts to get breakfast made.

A few moments later, Jon wanders off. He returns dressed in an outfit Martin hasn’t seen before, bookish but casual, wrapped with a cardigan in a rather serious shade of cabernet. Stupidly, Martin wonders if Jon has dressed for the occasion. Would blood show on that colour? Martin tries to imagine it, and feels a bit ill. Oblivious to Martin’s disquiet, Jon paces the kitchen, cursing under his breath as he drags his fingers through his loose hair, brow twisted and jaw working beneath the pepper of undulating scars.

Martin flips the first omelette. “Most people use a brush for that,” he observes. At that, Jon grumbles something under his breath, then winces as his hand catches a tangle. Martin takes pity on him. “I’ll get that for you in a bit.”

Jon sighs, then lets his hands fall. The smile he turns on Martin is small and grateful. “Thank you.”

Feeling a bit flushed, Martin returns his attention to cooking. He turns the omelette out onto one of Daisy’s shitty copper plates, then pours the next one into the pan.

Something about the sound of the eggs’ spitting and popping calms him- a predictable, rewarding transformation of liquid to solid, inedible to nutritious. He stares down at the omelette, the perfect yellow circle of it, and feels words well up in him for the first time in nearly a year.

 _The sun lingers in this kitchen  
Not through the window  
Or in the summer-yellow egg _  
(Wait, that makes it sound like an uncooked egg. But he can’t have ‘omelette’ in the middle of his poem. He’ll workshop it.) _  
Or even in the range stove heat  
Captured and Promethean_  
(Maybe a bit pretentious. He _likes_ it, though.)  
_No  
In this moment  
Despite the rain  
And the chill  
I am warm_  
(Simple, but- yeah. Yeah. In this moment, he is.)

Beside him, Jon draws a small, sharp breath. “ _Is that really how you feel?_ ”

In a rush of tingling, Martin says, “Yes.” Then his head clears. His free hand leaps to his mouth. “Oh.”

Jon’s eyes snap wide. “Oh, god, Martin, I didn’t mean—”

“No, uh- it’s- it’s fine—”

“It’s not. I’m supposed to be- ugh.” Jon scrapes his hands over his face. “Goddamn it. I’m sorry, Martin.”

“Jon, it’s really not a big- wait.” Martin turns out the omelette and flicks off the range to give his full attention to Jon. He runs the question back, and comes to an alarming conclusion. “You said- what did you mean, how I really feel? About what?”

Jon winces. “Your… poem?”

“My-” Martin laughs, very high and very dizzy, “the one I was just- drafting? In my head?”

“I, uh- Yes. That- that one.”

“Wait, sorry, did you- have you been Looking in my head!?”

Jon’s shoulders hackle. “Some.”

“Wha- Jon, you can’t _do_ that! How often have you been-” he gestures loosely with the spatula, “-peeking!?”

“Not often! I don’t- I don’t do it on purpose.” Jon drops his gaze. The tendons in his hands lurch as he clenches and unclenches them. “I’m sorry, Martin. I have… Known a few things about you since we arrived. I’ll make an effort to, um, push that information away if it comes to me again.”

“Yeah, I hope you will!” Martin’s voice has reached a peak that flirts with shrillness. He doesn’t care. “Did you not think- Jon, please tell me it didn’t only occur to you _just now_ that I might not like you doing that!”

Jon’s lips go concave into his mouth, subject to his nervous chewing.

Martin stares at him, then sighs and sets down the spatula. “Really?”

Jon sighs back, heavier, and crosses his arms. “I… I hardly know what I’m doing with all of-” he gestures jerkily, “- _this_. I’m- I have a new set of instincts, and- and desires that I just-” He breaks off and shakes his head. His fingers dig into the arms of his cardigan. Finally, he looks Martin in the eye. He looks- god, he looks tormented. Haunted. Martin’s stupid bleeding heart starts to gush.

“I’ll do better,” Jon says, with just an edge of desperation.

Again, Martin sighs, because sometimes there’s nothing else to be done. He takes one plate in each hand and walks past Jon to lay the pair of omelettes on the table, one gone cold and the other still lukewarm. He settles himself down with the cold one and motions for Jon to join him. Jon does.

“I appreciate that you want to do better,” Martin says softly. “Can I ask if- or- hm. What have you Known about me?” His heart pounds beneath the question. As embarrassing as it is to know Jon heard him waxing poetic about a fucking omelette (is that who he is as an artist, at this point?) he’s going to have an aneurism if Jon’s privy to even half of the more personal thoughts he’s had since they reunited.

“N-nothing invasive, I assure you!” Jon says in a rush. “Just small things. Where you got that jumper, for instance.” He gestures to the cable-rich number Martin is currently wearing. “Mabel Cooke, who lived across from- ah- who lived at the care home. She made it from her favourite yarn, because you reminded her of her son. He’s nothing like you, incidentally, but he’s gay, and she does try to be supportive in her way.”

A little chuckle slips past Martin’s discomfort. “Oh, yeah. She kept asking if I knew him.”

Jon’s mouth loosens a bit, not a smile, but amenable to one. “And do you remember Nellie Barton, from your primary school?”

“Oh, wow.” Martin leans back in his chair, curiosity winning out for the moment. “I’ve not heard that name in forever. You can just- what, see her in my past?”

“Ah, not really…? It’s more that I simply Know she works at a communications company now, and that she’s waiting to hear back about a possible promotion. She wasn’t chosen. She didn’t have the experience they wanted. Her partner is looking at rings, though, so it isn’t all bad.” A smile tilts one side of Jon’s mouth, just enough to crinkle one wing of crow’s feet. “They are- actually quite in love.”

Martin’s lips part, but he doesn’t know what to say. (What he wants to say is, “Speaking of being quite in love, there’s something we should discuss before we enter this new and terrifying phase of our relationship.” He does not say this.)

Jon’s expression falls a bit in the silence, and he clears his throat. “Sorry, that was- well. It’s mostly things of that nature. Uh- p-practically trivia. I would never, you know.” He wiggles the fingers of one hand, a bit ominous in the crook of them.

Rather frantically, Martin laughs. “What- what is that?”

Jon drops his hand immediately. “It’s- you know!” Martin does not know. He says as much. Jon grits his teeth. “What I mean is that- well-” He huffs. “I wouldn’t purposefully invade your privacy,” he finishes clearly, deliberately, like pulling teeth. “I’m not that far gone.”

“Okay.” Martin leans an elbow on the table and holds himself up by the cheek, trying to let go of some of the tension in his back. “I believe you, Jon. And I- I trust you. I do.”

At those words, Jon wilts. He drops his head into his hands and releases a long, shaky breath that flutters through his disheveled hair. As he looks up, strands of it catch on his eyelashes. He is nothing more or less than tired: a wrung-out rag of a man. His voice, when he speaks, cracks with an aching sincerity.

“Thank you, Martin.”

Jesus fucking Christ, Martin wants to hold him. He could; it’s only a few steps. Instead, he slaps his hands to his knees, says, “No worries. Now, I’ve forgot the tea, haven’t I?” and gets up to remedy that.

After tea and omelettes (neither of which Jon finishes), the tension in the kitchen becomes a different creature entirely. In the excitement of dealing with Jon’s peculiarities, Martin blessedly forgot the agenda for the day. He remembers when he opens the drawer to put back the freshly-washed forks, and an assortment of kitchen knives gleam at him, conspicuously free of dust.

He must wear his growing dread on his face, because Jon turns a sympathetic eye on him when he walks past and slouches into the sofa.

“Martin.”

Martin looks up from the thread he’s worrying out of his hole-speckled jeans. Jon stands above him with his fists perched at the crest of his hips: an attempt at an authoritative posture, undercut by accentuating just how much the cardigan hangs off of him.

“Let’s take a walk,” Jon says.

“What- in the rain?”

“Sure.” He flips a hand dismissively. “We both brought boots, and you have that umbrella.”

Martin resists asking whether Jon knows that via mundane or supernatural means. Then he thinks of wandering in the gentle Scottish rain, enfolded in glittering green, with Jon pressed against him beneath their single umbrella.

“I do like a good storm,” he says rather softly.

Jon smiles. “I’ll get my coat.”

A few minutes later, they stand in the open doorway, considering the lazy, windless rain. Martin pops his umbrella open. Jon snorts and gives him a look.

“I like dogs,” Martin says in a prim imitation of offense. The various cartoon breeds on the blue umbrella aren’t the picture of maturity, but Martin wasn't able to resist it when he saw it at the second-hand shop. That was years ago, now, but he’s not the type to replace things that aren’t broken. This umbrella has probably weathered the last decade better than he has.

“Into the wilderness, then?” Jon smirks.

God, Martin loves him.

“Lead the way.”

It’s a figure of speech, of course. They walk side by side, keeping a leisurely pace up the path and onto the road. The rainfall has been mild enough that when they wander off the gravelled route and into the lush grassland, there isn’t much fear of mud. They make it a good ways out, not saying much, mutually lulled by the sharp tap of rain against the umbrella.

Martin looks upon the world around him, and hopes he can savour it half as well as it deserves. His eyes cling to the jut of craggy rocks from the vivid moss, roll with the swells and troughs of the earth, arc to the height of the hills beyond. He cups the blend of hue and shadow close to his chest, and drinks of it long and deep. In a word, he beholds.

He wants to shake the weary, washed out man who spent the last several years staring at various walls. Sure, he’d been trapped at the Institute and facing crisis after crisis, but he couldn't have taken a walk every once in a while? Spent more time looking at the sky, gone to the park? Too many of his final sights have been rooms painted colours like cream and taupe and beige. There is so much beauty in the world. He always thought he’d see it _later_ , a nebulous time when things would be better. And by the time he understood that things would not get better, he didn’t have much desire left for anything, least of all beauty.

And yet. Now, the world sprawls green and gleaming around him, and Jon is here. There is beauty in this (in Jon), and it is not the sort that needs to be seen to exist.

Still, he’ll miss looking at him. He feels this acutely as Jon jerks to a stop, his eyes widening, lips blooming slowly into a smile. Martin stops a few steps late, and turns back to get the umbrella over both of them.

“What’s that face?”

Jon looks up at him, nothing short of delighted. “Oh, you’re going to love this. Come on!” He grabs Martin’s hand and leads him into the shadow of a low but sheer hill. As they stumble up, Martin almost eats dirt more than once, lacking a free hand to steady himself on the slick incline. Jon mounts one last shelf of rock and heaves himself to the top, where he crouches to help Martin up as well. Though he knows they’d both fall if he let Jon take any of his weight, Martin holds tight to his hand as he crests the peak.

“Whew,” he says, dropping Jon’s hand to dust clumps of mud from his knees. “What was that about?”

Jon grins and points into the field sprawling before them.

“I don’t—Oh! Cows!” he cries, as humans who see cows are obligated to do. A dozen or so brown, shaggy figures dot the grass, heads dipped to graze, seemingly unbothered by the gentle rain. Martin finds himself grabbing Jon’s hand, and takes them at a rushing, laughing stumble down the hill.

“Martin!” Jon seems to be trying to scold him, but his smile doesn’t sell it. He knocks into Martin’s shoulder as their momentum outlasts their movement, but Martin doesn’t see his reaction, because he is busy looking at some _very_ good cows, thank you.

The fence isn’t high, so Martin leaves the umbrella with Jon (whose protests he firmly shushes) and gets a boot up on the lowest wood slat, then tosses his other leg over and hops down. He approaches the nearest cow slowly, watching for any sign of agitation. The cow simply chews and occasionally flicks its tail. Martin enters her space with careful steps, keeping his frame ducked, and gently touches her flank. Rainwater slicks the fur, leaving it more soggy than soft, but given the chance to pet something so _cute_ , Martin really can’t make himself mind. He scratches between the cow’s shoulders and up into the temptingly fluffy fringe between the thin curve of her horns. She tosses her head, and he freezes, images flashing before his eyes of being gored by the most adorable animal in Scotland. Instead, the cow noses her slick snout up into the palm of his hand, and Martin decides that the world is okay, actually.

“Jon!” he calls, loud as he dares. “Made a friend!”

Leaning his elbows on the fence, umbrella propped over his shoulder, Jon smiles at him very fondly, and suddenly the whole moment feels a bit too much. Martin whips his attention back to the cow, whose face is still lifted for his attention. He finds himself laughing, not entirely sure why. It’s at about this point that he feels the weight of his soaked clothes and realises that his glasses are speckled thickly with raindrops, and decides this probably isn’t the day to risk catching cold. He tells the cow that it was very nice to meet her, and gives her a hearty scratch under the cheek as a parting gift.

When he starts to climb the fence, Jon lifts the umbrella to shelter him, and keeps it there until they’re side by side again.

“All you hoped for?” he asks, smirking.

“Oh, more.” Martin removes his glasses and goes to wipe them, only to realise his dripping shirt won’t do the job.

“Here.” Jon takes the glasses with a brush of fingertips. He dries the lenses carefully on the corner of his cardigan, and shrugs off Martin’s small “Thanks,” when he hands them back. As Martin slides his glasses on, the saddened tilt of Jon’s face sharpens into focus.

“We should be heading back soon,” Jon says.

A knot rises into Martin’s throat. “Ah, yeah. P-probably.”

By the time they reach the cabin, Martin’s whole body is shivering. He doesn’t know when he began to feel the cold again, but his brief spark of relief at the normalcy jitters quickly to pieces with the force of his chattering teeth.

Jon gives him a pitying look while shaking out the umbrella. “Had to pet the cow, didn’t you,” he tuts.

The look Martin tries to give him doesn’t survive his next particularly intense shiver. “H-as it been this-this cold in here the whole time?” he asks, stripping out of his waterlogged coat. “You sh-should have said some-thing, Jon. We c-ould’ve- started a fire.” Dust still sits thickly on the bundles of kindling next to the brick fireplace, untouched since their arrival.

Jon shrugs, which is something Martin has never seen him do outside of a dismissive context. “I’ve been fine,” he says, which- yep.

“J-Jon, it’s like fi-ve degrees in-n here!”

“So you should get out of those clothes.”

Well. He’s not wrong. “We’re co-ming back t-to this,” Martin threatens as he heads down the hall. Jon sighs loudly enough to carry through the bedroom door after it’s shut.

Once he peels out of his dripping clothes and gets them slung over the shower curtain rod to dry, Martin’s shaking ebbs. He pulls his favourite hoodie out of his suitcase, feeling rather like he needs the comfort at the moment, then realises that whatever he puts on will be bloodstained by the end of the day and thinks better of it. Glad that he overpacked, he pulls on an old tee and some trackies that he won’t miss. After a moment of consideration, he drags the top blanket off of his mattress and wraps himself in it, because he deserves it, damn it.

In the kitchen, Jon stands with a hard-set expression in front of the kettle. It starts to whistle just as Martin approaches, making Jon jump and bite back a yelp. Martin can’t help smirking as he reaches past to lift the kettle off the heat. Jon turns to him with wide eyes, like he’d forgotten Martin was in the house.

“Oh! I, uh- thanks.”

“You looked a million miles away,” Martin says evenly, focusing on filling the mugs Jon has laid out. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Jon says, which is something Martin is actually getting quite tired of hearing. “Did you- want to start a fire?”

Martin tightens the blanket around his shoulders. “A fire sounds really nice.” He frowns. “I… uh, have no idea how to start one. You?”

A severe wrinkle weighs on Jon’s brow. “Damn. I don’t. I’m not— oh.” He goes still, and his pupils swell for a moment, eyes going glassy. Then he laughs, and his gaze refocuses. “Yes, I do.”

“Oh,” Martin whispers. “That’s, um- convenient?”

Jon huffs. “It actually is. For once,” he adds at a mutter.

However creepy the catalyst, Martin can’t complain once a healthy fire crackles in the hearth. They drag Daisy’s rickety couch into the center of the room so that they can both sit facing the heat. Martin drops into one corner, ignoring the complaint of the old springs and allowing himself a deep sigh. Jon joins him a few moments later, mugs of tea in hand. Having forgotten the tea already, Martin floods with warmth before the ceramic even touches him.

“Thanks, Jon.”

Jon just smiles, then immediately winces as he starts to sit in the opposite corner. A tremor shoots visibly through his calf, causing his whole leg to buckle on the way down. Martin makes a conscious effort not to cringe.

Well. They needed to have this conversation sooner or later. Better now than _after_ , he supposes.

Martin draws a long breath for fortitude, then sighs it out. “Jon, I need to talk to you about something.”

Jon goes rigid.

“It’s not- I mean, it’s not bad, but it’s important, okay?”

“...Okay.” Jon settles into his corner, expression carefully guarded.

“I need you to promise me you’ll start taking better care of yourself.”

Jon’s face crumples into well-worn lines of annoyance. “Martin—”

“Please hear me out. I know you think- everyone always thought I was fussing about you, or- or mothering you, or whatever, but someone has to take your health seriously, and it obviously isn’t you. Honestly, I- I can’t be _lieve_ you thought that your own body could be the anchor that pulled you out of the Buried! You don’t give a shit about your body, Jon! Which probably should have been obvious when you sacrificed part of it to a- a terrible meat monster without even thinking! Which is— it’s- beside the point.

“Look, I’ve done my best to make peace with your choices. I’m not your nursemaid, or your-” he almost says boyfriend, and stumbles over the spike of his heartbeat, “-or-or your mum. I can’t make you do anything. But now, I’m _asking_. We’re about to enter a situation where I will very likely be dependent on you for important things, and I don’t think either of us wants you to find yourself unable to help. And, personally, I- I can’t let you wear yourself down caring for me. This is a put-your-own-oxygen-mask-on-first situation.” Jon rolls his eyes at the adage, and Martin’s voice hardens. “I’m _serious_ , Jon.”

A frown still presses between Jon’s eyebrows, but the scowling of his mouth softens slightly. “Alright. Fine. What, specifically, am I meant to be taking care of?”

“For starters? Eat. Three meals a day, whether you’re hungry for them or not.” Jon opens his mouth, but Martin cuts him off. “Yes, I know you forget, and you can’t help it, or whatever bollocks. We’re going to set alarms on your phone. And when the alarm goes off, you’re going to eat something.”

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t _need_ food anymore.”

“Right now? Maybe not. But in two weeks, if all goes well, you’re going to be a- a _mere mortal_ again, and I’m honestly really terrified that you’re going to wake up malnourished on top of being blind, and just have a really shit time of things. And honestly, Jon? Just because you don’t need food to live anymore, doesn’t mean you’re not- not wasting away without it.” Martin gestures helplessly at Jon, who curls in on himself a bit, only accentuating his gauntness.

Jon frowns at the couch’s brown piping, and scratches at it with a yellowed nail. “You… may have a point. A-about preparing to Quit. I hadn’t considered that.” He sighs heavily. “The alarms are excessive.”

“I— No, Jon, I don’t think they are. You don’t- you _really_ don’t have a healthy relationship with taking care of yourself. For a while there, I was… I was worried that you were trying to starve yourself.” Something wretched and broken makes it into his voice as he admits this, and Jon’s posture finally gentles.

“Martin. I wouldn’t—”

“You do, though.” Martin wipes a hand over his face, and tries to push down the complex snarl of emotions this topic pulls up from his gut. “With the statements, too. I don’t think you’re doing it consciously, but I- I know something about self-harm, Jon, and that’s what you’re doing to yourself, even if you aren’t meaning to.”

Jon goes very still, his eyes wide. Martin feels, for a moment, a wisp of static between them, and watches Jon shudder against what must be a desire to ask. Instead, his slender throat jumps with a visible swallow, and he nods.

“I… okay. Three alarms, three meals.” He looks a bit like it hurts to say. Still, Martin can’t help a swell of affection as Jon’s lip tugs back, bearing an eyetooth in almost comical disgust. “Anything else?”

“Yes. If you feel weak, read a statement. There’s no reason to stockpile them if you won’t need them in two weeks, so just- just use them.”

Jon sighs, and it’s almost a growl at the back of his throat. “That’s… reasonable.”

“And I want you to see a doctor about your leg.”

“Martin—” Warning hangs in Jon’s tone, but he’s a fool if he thinks he can intimidate Martin anymore.

“No, Jon. We’re doing this for a chance at real life, right? No- spooky entities, or worms, or mannequins? Chance to die of natural causes, and not- just- just very horribly?” Jon watches him, wary. “Right?”

“...Right.”

“Okay, so you might want to make a bit of an investment in the future and not just- drive your body into the ground at thirty for no good reason. If a professional can help you recover, or do something for the pain, you owe that to yourself.” Jon begins to object, but Martin heads him off. “If I had an injury that was lowering my quality of life, would you want me to ignore it while it got worse, or get the help I needed?”

Jon closes his eyes and sighs with all the air he seems to have in him. He frowns at the insides of his eyelids for a long moment. “Yes- yes, alright. I get it.” His eyes open, and the edge of his mouth sharpens with a vexed smile. “You know, I used to think I was the most stubborn person I knew?”

Martin leans back in his seat, muscles loosening with relief. “Well, I don’t budge on people I care about,” he says, too weary to be coy. Jon’s face softens, and he clears his throat.

“I’ll- I’ll consider your feelings in the future when I’m- when it comes to all this.” He gestures between them, to the elapsed conversation. “I’m afraid I, uh, wasn’t great at being a person in the first place, so. Now that I’m not one at all…” He shrugs, and huffs a grim laugh.

“Hey.” Martin sits forward again, and almost reaches to put his hand on Jon’s knee. Almost. “Jon. You’re a person. I don’t care if you think you’re not human- I mean, maybe you’re not. Maybe I’m not. But this isn’t- you haven’t lost your _personhood_. Thinking like that doesn’t help anything.”

A shadow jumps beneath Jon’s cheekbone: his teeth grinding. “I’ve hurt people, Martin.”

“Yeah, well, so have I. So has everyone. You’re telling me you’ve never been, just, colossally traumatised by a regular person?”

That gets a laugh out of Jon, something that seems to surprise him as it happens. He shakes his head. “I- yes, okay. I get it. No one is free of fault, et cetera.” He turns his hand in a limp, circular gesture that seems to indicate the entire concept of fault in general. “I don’t know why I’m even- it won’t matter in a few weeks.”

There’s a resignation to the way he says that, and it doesn’t sit well with Martin. But he can’t think about the possibility that Jon won’t survive Quitting, or he’s not going to make it through the day, so he shoves it right down.

“Okay, then,” Martin says. “So, to take better care of yourself, you’re going to…?”

Jon blinks at him for a moment, then grimaces as he realises he’s supposed to answer. “Martin, honestly.”

Martin smiles sweetly. “Oh, I’m game to go over it again, if you like.”

Jon actually rolls his eyes. “Set alarms to eat three times a day. Read more statements. Get the leg looked at.” He crosses his arms. “Anything else? Shall I take up yoga? Pop a multivitamin every hour?”

“Actually,” Martin says, attempting to obscure his smile by giving his chin a thoughtful stroke, “I had thought you might enjoy those 80s aerobic dance videos? I could do them too. I did bring my spandex.”

Jon laughs again, and really, that’s all Martin can ask for.

* * *

Martin had actually thought—naively, idiotically—that Jon was beginning to like him.

Between their worm-prompted “heart-to-heart” and the reduced hostility of Jon’s dismissals when Martin made his periodic check-ins, things seemed... well, not good, but better than before. Jon was tense, as usual, but Martin had the novel relief of knowing he wasn’t the cause of it. He did his best to help, mostly enquiring after Jon’s basic needs when he looked peaky (which was most of the time), and paying careful attention to his tunnel-visioned theories about some monster below the institute killing Gerturde (which was the rest of the time). When he placed Jane Prentiss’s ashes on Jon’s desk, he saw a flicker of unaffected relief on Jon’s face, and that almost made him optimistic.

Then he walked into Jon’s office to find his desk littered with long-range photos of Tim, and the optimism turned heel.

If Jon was going to be an arsehole, that was his prerogative, but a foray into stalking? That was - no. Martin, contrary to what Tim seemed to think, did have _standards_ , and Jon was quickly falling short of all of them. Just because Martin categorically gave people the benefit of the doubt, that didn’t mean he couldn’t tell the difference between garden variety grouchiness and legitimately dangerous behaviour.

So, he took a step back. He reminded himself that he wasn’t responsible for Jon, and that dealing with what was clearly some kind of mental breakdown was far above his pay grade.

He was still civil, of course. Martin Blackwood would dissolve like the sugar in his tea if he wasn’t kind; kindness, spit, and gum were all that held together the fear and self-consciousness that comprised the rest of him. To get through the day, he had to believe that there were nice people left in the world. And if he was going to have to be that nice person because no one else would, then fuck, so be it.

Ultimately, Martin compromised. He no longer stayed late to hover over Jon, but he always stuck his head in at half five and asked him to go home. (He never did.) He stopped bringing cups of tea, since Jon wasn’t drinking them anyway. (He seemed to think he did a good job hiding his suspicion that Martin was trying to poison him; he did not.)

Martin finally went to Elias about the situation. He made sure to stress that Jon was in a bad way and shouldn’t be punished, just reprimanded, definitely offered help. It seemed like the right move. Then Jon came downstairs from Elias’s office the next morning, levelled Martin from across the room with a sniper-shot glare, and locked himself in his office for the rest of the day. At this point, Martin began to fear that there were no right moves.

It was the following Tuesday that Martin ran into Jon in the break room. No one had seen Jon use the break room in a while, which Martin suspected was by design, a theory confirmed when Jon saw him enter and lurched off the sagging couch like something had bitten his arse. Martin got a few syllables into sighing that he’d come back later—

and Jon crumpled forward onto the coffee table.

Adrenaline flooded Martin, lightning-bright branches through every limb. He was bent in front of Jon before he could form a full thought, already helping him back onto the couch.

“Martin- I don’t- _ahh_ —” Jon’s protest shrank to a hiss of air between his teeth, and his hand leapt to his side.

“Okay, you’re okay. Do you know what might be wrong? Do you have any conditions?”

Jon’s throat jumped with what could only be called a growl. “It’s- it’s fine. I don’t need help.”

Standing up, Martin crossed his arms. He was not above using his size to convey authority. “Jon. What’s wrong?” his voice thinned a bit, always the biggest tell for his soft heart. He stood a little straighter to compensate.

Jon looked off with a scoff, then glared back at Martin over the rim of his drooping glasses. “It’s none of your business.”

Martin worked his mouth. An anger welled in him, bitter and bruised, that he hadn’t felt since the last time he found himself caring for an obstinate person with a very low opinion of him. But Jon had no way of knowing his past, and that past had nothing to do with this situation. That anger wasn’t meant for this time or place. Martin took a deep breath.

“Alright,” he sighed, reaching one hand to rub his eyes beneath his glasses. “If you can stand, I’ll leave you alone.”

Valiantly, Jon got halfway to his feet. He then fell back into the couch and barked, “Fuck,” which was something Martin had never heard him say, even with worms twisted halfway into the meat of his calf.

“Fine,” Jon snapped, venom diluted by the strain in his voice. “I think I’ve- pulled my stitches. If you could assist me out to the street, I’ll- ah- get a cab and have it taken care of, if that’s quite alright with you.”

Martin’s arms dropped to his sides. “Sorry, stitches?”

“Yes. Stitches.”

“Wha- when did you get stitches!?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Jon-!” Martin wrenched his hands into his hair and stared down at the infuriating man before him, who stared back with an impressive amount of reproach for someone who seemed half a breath from fainting. “Jon, _why_ do you have stitches? What happened!?”

“Alright. Look.” Jon’s voice dropped into the false-calm, carefully annunciated growl that he reserved for those times he thought Martin was contributing to humanity’s lowest sins. “I was- I had an accident. I went to the hospital. I got five stitches. It was _fine_. It’s still fine, so—”

“An accident?” That phrasing made Martin’s stomach tighten. “What kind of accident, Jon?”

Jon’s quiet fury wavered. “I, uh- It was a- kitchen mishap.”

“W- Jon! Elaborate!”

“If you must know, I- I stabbed myself- accidentally! -with a- a bread knife. Now, I’ve been interrogated more than enough recently, so if you don’t mind...” The full intensity of Jon’s eyes met Martin’s, a deep brown barricade, daring him to speak a word of contradiction.

There was nothing for it, then. A sympathetic shiver slipped up Martin’s sides. Sighing, he lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, fine. Call a cab and I’ll get you outside, yeah?”

“ _Thank_ you,” Jon growled without a modicum of gratitude. Martin could have screamed.

He managed to be perfectly civil, however, as he helped Jon to the street. Despite Jon’s grumblings, Martin stayed until the cab arrived, then helped him in. With something almost like shame, Jon tilted his head just barely toward Martin and caught him with those eyes.

Then he said, “Thank you.” It trembled, and he meant it.

Martin’s next breath shook. “Yeah, sure, Jon. Please, just- don’t come back to work today. Go home and rest.”

The note of exhausted pleading in Martin’s voice must have loosened whatever heart Jon had, because he sighed and nodded. “Fine.”

Martin watched the cab thread into traffic, and then he found himself alone with the dread diffusing slowly outward from his gut. There was not one fibre in his body that believed Jon injured himself accidentally. Whether in some sort of paranoid fit, or as a more deliberate decision, he couldn’t guess, but he knew the signs of someone hiding self-injury. The thought of Jon—proper, uptight, tense Jon—slipping into such an extreme form of this behaviour made him want to sit down right on the kerb and put his head between his knees.

There was always the possibility that Jon had been attacked by someone else, but surely he would have told them. Maybe Jon trusted his archival assistants as far as he could throw them, but he wouldn’t be stupid enough to hide a hostile third party from them, not after Prentiss. Surely.

Martin spent the rest of his day, both in the office and at home, in an uneasy haze. He kept picturing it, attempting to imagine what Jon’s headspace might have been, how he could have found himself with a knife in his hands and that intent in his head. The thought was too much, and he knew that it was too much, but still, he let it crush him.

The consequence hit when he stepped into the shower. The moment the water touched him, he began to weep. Fierce, wretched sobs wracked him until he had to sit down right there on the tile, bawling so hard that his stomach cramped. He sniffled and shook beneath the spray, letting the water take care of his dripping nose, unable to wrench his eyes open. When the water went cold, he simply reached up and shut it off, leaving himself drenched and naked and unwashed. There was a poem in there, somewhere. He couldn’t be arsed to find it.

At only half eight, he popped a few sleeping pills (an investment for the sake of sleeping alone in his post-Prentiss flat) and plunged into a miserable sleep. He woke feeling no better.

On his way to work, he repeated to himself that there was nothing he could do about this. Jon was an adult, and moreover, an adult who all but hated him. Even in a universe where it was a good idea for Martin to talk to him about this, Jon would deny it, because that was what Jon did: he denied. The bastard practically spent his whole life in the first stage of grief.

Christ, maybe that was exactly what was happening. Martin wilted with the thought.

When Martin got in, Jon was already at his desk. He cut a hunched, angular figure in the dimly lit office, and did a bad job of pretending like he hadn’t been staring before Martin looked at him. Exhaustion hollowed his features, and he looked a little grey, and Martin just—couldn’t.

He knew he’d seen a teapot in the breakroom cupboard. It turned up after a bit of searching, and only needed a small scrub to wipe what must have been years of disuse off of it. When he’d first seen it, he’d assumed it was Gertrude’s; the image of a hunched septuagenarian doddering about with a teacup in hand had given him a small, private smile. Now, after learning more about her—after finding her bullet-torn body—he figured it had been a very long time since anyone made a nice pot of tea in the archives.

That was fine. Martin was no stranger to quietly breaking tradition.

With the side of his scuffed loafer, Martin knocked lightly on the frame of Jon’s office door. Jon looked up with his features already set harshly, but sat a little straighter when he saw Martin’s hands full with the teapot and a pair of mugs. He watched with intense confusion as Martin arranged it all on an unoccupied corner of the desk.

“I brought tea,” Martin said, and felt his stomach twisting at the sound of his own hesitance.

Jon’s brow furrowed very deeply. It was amusing (not adorable, Martin told himself; his unhinged boss was not adorable).

“Clearly,” Jon said finally, slow with scepticism.

“Um, yeah.” Martin realised he was pushing his thumb bruisingly into his opposite palm, and tried to subtly shake his hands out. He lifted the teapot, focusing on its stale pink glaze and faded ivy border instead of Jon’s eyes as he poured them both a cuppa. “Pick yours?”

For a moment, he fully expected Jon to devolve into a circular rant about which cup might be laced with iocane powder. But he simply emptied himself of a world-weary sigh and reached for the mug with the calico cat and the chipped rim. He did, however, make no move to drink. Martin took a healthy swallow from the other cup, then rested it in his opposite palm, centering himself on the warmth while showing Jon that he was not, in fact, dropping dead.

Finally, finally, Jon drank the goddamn tea. His lashes fluttered shut in a heartbreaking reaction of comfort, perhaps even relief, though it was gone a second later as he addressed Martin again.

“That’s, um. Rather decent. I don’t normally like it plain.”

“Oh, yeah, I know.” Martin’s ears went immediately hot. “I mean- this blend is pretty nice, doesn’t need anything extra? It’s, um, a custom one from one of those upscale shops in Pimlico. I don’t normally spend like that on tea, but you have to do something to get through the day, you know? It’s a nice little pick-me-up, anyway. I could show you where I hide it.”

In all fairness, Martin hadn’t expected to be able to talk that long without upsetting Jon. It was at the mention of _hiding_ that Jon’s face dipped into a frown. He set his cup none-too-carefully on the desk.

“It’s just that Tim-” Martin began, and choked off when he heard how frantic he sounded. That wouldn’t help. He gathered himself. “There’s supposed to be the name policy for personal food, you know, but Tim will just sample anything that’s in, a, uh, a package, like if there’s more than one left? So I- I just put it away, you know, where he won’t see it, since it’s sort of a special purchase, you know?”

Jon had turned back to his work. He thumbed through a thick reference book, and didn't look at Martin. “I’m sure.”

Defeat twisted Martin’s stomach, wringing out the adrenaline that had led him into this encounter and leaving him with nothing but the exhaustion of his terrible night. He gathered what he’d brought, feeling more than a little stupid with the pink teapot tucked into the crook of his arm. He turned to go, but stopped in the doorway. “Jon, just- please- try to be a bit kinder to yourself.”

Jon huffed a bitter laugh, thick with derision. Yeah. That was about right. Martin didn’t bother looking at him as he closed the office door.

Tim caught him on the way out. He took one look at Martin and his sad teapot and his sadder expression, and scowled.

“Why do you bother? He’s never going to give a shit about you.”

That was a slap. Martin rounded on Tim, teeth clenched. “I _know_ that!”

Tim jerked back, eyes slightly wide. Martin felt a bit bad about shouting, then a bit angry that Tim apparently hadn’t believed him to be capable of shouting until that moment.

Stalking away from the office, Martin dropped his voice to a fierce whisper. “I’m not an idiot, Tim.”

“Yeah, well, it’s hard to believe that when you’re bringing _tea_ to our psycho stalker boss,” Tim hissed, his gesticulations jerky as he followed Martin to the break room. “I don’t get it, Martin! Why are you wasting your time on him?”

 _I have to_ , he almost said. God, that wasn’t good. Martin clenched his teeth and upended his barely-sipped mug into the sink. “I think he stabbed himself,” he found himself saying. It was hardly a whisper.

Tim went quiet. For a moment, Martin was sure that he’d left. Then he said, cold and even, “So what?”

Martin turned, scattering water from the half-rinsed teapot in his hand. “Really, Tim? You were friends!”

“Were! We _were_ friends! I don’t stay friends with people who suspect me of _murder_ , and neither should you.”

“He’s not my friend.” Hurt laced through the words, and in that moment Martin would have given anything for Tim not to have heard the raw note in his voice. “But he’s still a person, Tim, and he’s hurting, and I can’t-” his throat closed, and he turned back to the sink. “I can’t,” he choked.

Tim breathed loudly for a moment behind him, then scoffed. “I’m sorry it’s like that, Martin,” he said with no small measure of bitterness. “I’m sure you two will be very happy together.”

That should have made him angry. He wanted it to make him angry. Instead, he held himself together until Tim’s footsteps faded, then dropped to his elbows at the sinkside and shook into stifled sobs.

“ _You’re too sensitive_ ,” Mum had always told him. Martin never doubted that.

But he knew now, with cut-glass clarity, that he would spend the rest of his life letting other people’s pain bruise him, until he was spangled in pansy yellows and purples, and even the softest touch would tear his flower petal skin.

Not- he thought with a wet, choking laugh -that anyone would ever care enough to be soft with him.

* * *

Jon’s hands sweep gently over the blanket as he lays it on the table, almost reverent in smoothing its wrinkles away. He’s already done the same with two quilts, making a thin but not insubstantial cushion over the unvarnished wood. Satisfied, he places a pillow at the midpoint of the table, where Martin’s head will go.

Against his better efforts, Martin stutters out an unsettled laugh.

Jon eyes him. “What?”

“Nothing, just- isn’t- isn’t _comfort_ a bit beside the point?” He gestures at the pillow.

“It, uh. It’s in case you thrash.”

“Oh! Oh.”

“Pain can make people—”

“Yeah, yeah, I, um-” Martin puts a hand to his face and laughs again, thin and edging toward tears. “I get it.”

“Martin.” Jon, telegraphing the movement, lays his hand gingerly on Martin’s shoulder. “Do you still want to do this?”

Martin bites back his knee-jerk ‘yes’. He’s gotten far too used to setting himself on a path and letting the momentum of inevitability carry him into new stages of his life. _You’ve made your choice_ was his mantra when he dropped out of school, when he first tried to quit the archives, when he saw Jon standing before him, breathing, after he’d already mourned him and cast his hopeless lot in with The One Alone.

This… isn’t that. He can say no. God knows what he would do next, but in this moment, he has the option. And here stands Jon, who he knows without a doubt will honor any answer he gives.

“...Yeah. Yes, I want to do it.”

Jon takes a deep breath and nods sharply. “Right.”

 _Click_.

They turn. A tape recorder sits next to the pillow, whirring.

Martin sighs. “Of course.”

The plan as they’ve discussed it is to do the blinding here, then drive immediately to the payphone on the outskirts of the village and call 999. They’ve agreed to do it on the kitchen table due to its combination of stability and height; Jon can get the leverage he needs there, but he’ll also be able to stand Martin up without too much trouble when it comes time to help him to the car. Already waiting on the table is the ice pick, a belt, and an embarrassment of medical supplies, both theirs and Daisy’s. If this goes well, they shouldn’t need most of it, but Jon still takes the time to arrange everything meticulously, concern sliced deep between his brows.

Martin takes this in. He’s been staring at Jon a lot, these past two days, but now he allows himself the indulgence of doing so without guilt. Grey spills through the interlocked weave of his hair, a practical but elegant French braid that Martin sorted for him earlier. Jon moves jerkily but with purpose, intense in every gesture, no matter how small. His lips form silent shapes, a habit which Martin has never discerned as a preexisting quirk, or as a result of spending so much of time being recorded. Maybe one day he’ll ask.

Jon meets his eyes, and if he cares that Martin was staring, he doesn’t let on. “Alright,” he sighs, resting his fists on his hips and laying a scrutinous look across the table. “That should be everything.”

“Oh,” Martin says.

A muscle twitches in Jon’s cheek; he seems to be trying to smile, but he doesn’t make it. “Yes. Well. Time for the whisky, I think.”

Martin slumps with a sigh. “Christ, yeah.” He finds their tea-stained mugs from earlier and sets them on the counter. Jon unscrews the whisky they got from the village. He tips a conservative splash of amber into Martin’s mug, then glances up with his brows raised in question.

“One more,” Martin says, to which Jon nods and adds a second finger. He starts to spin the cap back on, and Martin asks, “You aren’t having any?”

Jon looks at him, deeply unimpressed.

“Oh! Oh- right. Yeah.” Martin chuckles uncomfortably, and has a very odd sort of nostalgia for his early days in the archives. Except now, Jon’s judgmental expression softens, and he doesn’t seem interested in (or capable of?) kerbing the openly worried look that overcomes it.

“You’re- still sure, Martin?”

“I- yeah.” Martin sighs. “I’m- ha, I’m nervous as hell? But this- it’s- yeah. This should help.” He knocks back the whisky before he can think too hard about how cheap it was. He’s never been one for spirits—more of a beer and cider guy, partial to the occasional cocktail—and he remembers exactly why as each quick swallow scorches a new lick of bitterness straight into his core. “Fuck,” he croaks as he lowers the mug.

“Sounds about right,” Jon says, and gently uncurls Martin’s fingers from the handle. “Is- is it helping?”

The furious blaze already eddies outward from Martin’s stomach, making his limbs feel warm and a bit more _there_ than they were a moment ago. He shakes his arms out and gets a tingle through his fingers. His jaw has unclenched for the first time in a while. “Yeah, actually.”

Jon nods. “Good.” He returns to the table and snaps on a set of disposable gloves, then applies rubbing alcohol to a sterile gauze pad. He reaches for the ice pick and goes about sweeping the pad thoroughly across its length. Martin’s legs waver at the sight of the cruel implement, and he figures it’s as good a time as any to lay down. The table is a sturdy thing, and only creaks a bit as he settles back on it. He lets his head sink into the pillow next to the murmur of the recorder, and feels bizarrely like he’s in the doctor’s office as he stares at the ceiling, nervous only for mundane reasons.

“You should scoot down a bit,” Jon says. “You’ll want to be able to hold onto the edge to help with the pain, and so you’re not tempted to grab me or cover your face.”

“Ah. Right.” Fairly sure that the whisky is the only reason he hasn’t gone ice cold, Martin follows Jon’s ominous instructions and shimmies lower. He gets his hands firmly under the lip of the table. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a- just a very good bedside manner?”

“No, never.” Martin gasps a giddy laugh at that, and Jon smiles back at him, just a blink of amusement. Then he sobers, and approaches Martin’s side of the table with the ice pick in hand. He leans slowly over until his face hangs above Martin’s, and his irises yield all too quickly to the growing voids of his pupils.

Martin swallows hard. “Can- can you See?”

“Yes,” Jon whispers. “There you are.”

There is no doubt in Martin’s mind that Jon can see right through to the back of his skull. He thinks he feels it tingling. “So you, um. You- you know what to do?”

“With precision.” Jon says it almost reverently, as if from somewhere very far away.

Martin needs him to be here. “Jon?”

The pupils narrow slightly, and Jon comes back. “Yes, Martin?”

He doesn’t know what he meant to say next. His name in Jon’s mouth is enough.

“I’m ready.” Martin takes off his glasses. He reaches for the belt lying further up the table and folds it once before shoving it between his teeth. His hands shake, but he manages to keep them clutched on the edge of the table.

“Right.” Jon draws a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them with a jarring clarity. He presses one gloved hand to Martin’s forehead, at once holding his head in place and using a thumb to carefully peel back his right eyelid. He looms, face and weapon drawn. “Shall I count?” he asks, quiet, grave.

Martin nods.

“Three.”

He holds his breath.

“Two.”

He looks home, right into Jon’s eyes.

“One.”

(Though he always felt rather guilty over it, every time a statement-giver said “the pain was indescribable,” Martin thought, “Was it, really?” It wasn’t that he doubted the intensity of the pain, not at all! He had enough natural empathy to wince when someone so much as stubbed a toe, nevermind tumbling into a statement where the victim’s terror and agony soaked into him through the page. He took pain seriously. But, “indescribable”? Really? Out of every word on offer in the English language, not one could suffice? It always seemed a bit of a cop-out, to him. If they had an all-knowing voyeur urging their pen, a being bloated with thousands upon thousands of tales of pain, they might at least _try_. Honestly.)

The pain is indescribable.

Martin screams. It shreds his throat raw. He keeps screaming. The intrusion rips back out of his eye. His voice breaks, and he thrashes his head away from the glint of cruel silver, now half-slicked in candy-red.

Somewhere, someone speaks to him. He doesn’t know who. There is someone he wants it to be, but he can’t remember their name. Blood pours, hot, down the side of his face. The room is reduced to vague shapes as tears flood his remaining eye. His hands ache, nails hooked into the table’s varnish. It reeks of iron.

Above him, a face takes form around the voice. It is a face he knows, a face that pulls the ruined mess of him back into the vague shape of a man. The word Martin manages to say is little more than a rough vowel through the leather in his teeth, but the face above him twists with understanding. Jon knows the sound of Martin crying his name.

“I-I-I know, I know, Martin. I’m so sorry. But I-I need you to be- be still, alright? One more. Be still. Be still.”

For Jon. For Jon, Martin makes himself be still. Jon’s hand presses to the other side of Martin’s temple, and Martin’s muscles lock from jaw to knees. A foreign finger drags his left eyelid back. Tears spill up his face and gather in the well at the juncture of his nose and brow. He whimpers, but he is still.

“O-okay. Okay, it’s almost over. One more, Martin. I’m- I-I- I’ll count. Three, two, one—”

Martin sees Jon,

then he does not.

* * *

(The Ceaseless Watcher Sees Martin Blackwood,

then It does not.)

* * *

Time passes oddly after that. It creeps and then surges, spurred or stalled as the pain peaks, plunges, plateaus. Even the darkness wavers, cut with the last gasp of dying nerves, phosphene fireworks in the wasteland of gored tissue. A sole constant threads through it all: Jon’s voice.

“You’re doing so well, Martin. We’ll be there soon, alright?”

Martin doesn’t remember getting in the car.

His mind keeps telling him to open his eyes. He tries to resist. Does it anyway. It _hurts_. He shouts. Reflexively he tries to touch the twisting, throbbing, screaming epicenter, but Jon cries, “Don’t!” and Martin freezes on instinct.

“Shit- I’m sorry, I’m- I— You- you can’t touch it, alright?” Jon’s hand lands on his. Martin grips it so hard that the bones grind, so tight that Jon whimpers. But Jon doesn’t pull away. “We- we’re almost there. I’ve got you.”

The rumble of the car beneath him and Jon’s hand in his afford him just a bit more lucidity. He’s crying, he realises. He doesn’t know why that surprises him.

“Fucking- _hurts_ ,” he sobs.

Jon’s hand squeezes his, a weak little flicker of muscle, but it’s enough. “I know.”

Eventually, they stop. Martin sits forward in his seat, desperate to get out despite knowing his legs can’t carry him right now. The other door opens, and Jon’s hand pulls in his. He tightens his grip.

“Jon,” he begs.

“Christ. I-I know, Martin, I’m sorry, I- I’ll - I’m coming right back. I have to call the ambulance for you. I’m- I’m coming back.”

Martin believes him, he does. It’s just so hard to let him go. But he does—he’s done it before, too often, far too often—and he finds himself alone. That’s where he ended up last time he lost Jon, wasn’t it? And it hurt then, too.

He would welcome the oncoming fog, if the white-hot wreckage of his wounds wasn’t in the way. Forsaken does not deal in things so crude as gore, as simple pain. And the heat of his agony, the burning, it won’t be touched by anything so cold. _Desolated_ is the word, Martin remembers. This is a Desolation. That’s exactly what he is now: Lightless. His soft, gasping sobs catch over delirious laughter. Why did he do this? Why did he let this happen? What the fuck was he thinking? What could possibly—?

“Martin?”

Jon’s voice rolls over him. Raindrops hit his left side. Two clammy, trembling hands wrap around one of his, easing gently inside of his clenched fist, turning the tangle of cramping muscle back into fingers. One of the hands lifts to touch his chest, sinking into the give of his flesh, pressing him slowly but firmly back against the seat.

“Martin, a-are you with me?”

“Yes,” Martin rasps. He covers Jon’s hand on his chest. “Don’t- don’t leave me.”

“Oh.” Jon’s voice breaks. “No. I-I-I won’t. I called the ambulance, a-and they’ll be here soon, and I’ll stay with you, Martin. I’ll- I’ll stay as long as I can.”

Martin makes a sound that he hardly recognises as his, a raw animal whimper. Something drips from his chin to his neck, and he doesn’t know whether it’s blood or tears. Jon wipes it away. Martin lies there, unalone and unbeheld, and lets him.

“I- I think- I think I’m gonna faint,” he mumbles, and then he does.

* * *

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Martin comes to in darkness. He moans and tries to open his eyes. They stick. Whining lowly, he brings his forefinger and thumb to his eyelids and drags away the sleep gathered on his lashes, the granules scraping the delicate skin. Finally, he opens them to see his bedroom, washed in the wee hours of the morning. Moonlight drapes over the windowsill, pouring from the open curtain across the strewn laundry and the uneven scruff of the carpet. A glass of water sits, half-drunk, on his bedside table, its surface a perfect disk of white.

_Knock. Knock._

The chill of the kitchen lino on his bare feet sends a shiver of awareness up his spine. When did he get out of bed? He looks back at his open bedroom door, as if he can track his own movements.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

His hand curls around the door knob. He has already twisted it when the smell hits him.

Damp earth. Sick. Rot.

A hand—no, less than a hand, just split yellow nails capping bones ringed in squirming shapes and hanging sallow skin—slaps onto the jamb. Martin screams, but it’s lost in the horrible squelching _crack_ as he slams the door on the hand. It twitches and spasms, and Martin feels a shaky wail strangling out of him as he realises it’s not the fingers that are moving. It’s the worms.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Martin stumbles back. He loses balance and comes down hard on his hip with a yelp. The worms come upon him fast, far too fast, and he has the terrible thought that he needs to stop screaming to protect his vulnerable tongue from their awful burrowing heads. Wildly he slams his hands and his heels against the ground. Their wriggling bodies crack and burst against his skin. Bile burns his throat.

_Knock. Knock._

Jane Prentiss’s knuckles, bare and blackened, skim the door as she staggers inside. The worms agitate beneath her shadow, quivering in excitement. Something moves under his sleeve. He slaps it, only to find with a high, broken whine that live worms wriggle beneath the flesh of his palms. Something squirms on his back, then in it. He tries to claw at it. There are too many.

He looks up, and sees another figure framed in the door.

“Jon?”

Even in relief, Jon’s shape is unmistakable. It’s him. It’s him, Martin knows it’s him, but he’s just- he’s just _standing_ there.

“Jon!” Martin wails, and worms curl past his lips. “J-Jon, help!”

Slowly, without urgency, Jon steps across the threshold. Where his silent feet fall, the worms shrivel back, crawling over each other in a terrible writhing mass to get away.

Jane opens her mouth, and her pitted tongue knocks, knocks, knocks.

“J-” Martin gags, and coughs, and curls forward to retch worms. Tears flood his eyes when he looks up at Jon. He can feel squirming at the top of his windpipe. “Jon- pl-”

Martin screams.

He’s all eyes.

“ _Martin?_ ”

Jon keeps coming. He passes Prentiss like she isn’t there, and crouches at Martin’s side. The eyes twitch, strain, spin. One for every worm. Maybe more.

“ _Martin, Martin, hey. Come on._ ”

Jon takes Martin’s chin in his hand, and tilts his head up, and digs his fingernails between Martin’s teeth through the flesh of his cheek, forcing his mouth open. Worms tumble out, and the eyes drink it in.

“ _ **Martin!**_ ”

Martin wakes, and he cannot feel his eyes. He lies in darkness, head pounding, dizzy in his skull and in his stomach. The bed beneath him is not one he knows, but the scent of disinfectant and the distant sound of murmured conversation and rubber-soled shoes on tile are familiar enough. He’s in hospital. Why—?

“Martin? Please.” There’s a hand on his face, hot and shaking, the thumb drawing agitated strokes through his stubble.

“I’m awake,” Martin says, voice less than a wheeze.

“Oh.” A sigh fans over him, sour with coffee. “You were- you were dreaming, I think? You kept saying- w- it doesn’t matter.” Jon’s thumb has made a home in the dip between Martin’s lip and chin, moving just enough to make its presence unignorable. The touch makes his chest tighten.

“How are you?” Jon asks, tentative.

“I’m… not sure,” Martin admits. He reaches hesitantly up and curls his hand around Jon’s wrist when he finds it. God, he’s withered; Martin’s hand wraps easily around, so far that his thumb rests on his own fingers. “I don’t think I have any eyes.”

The desperate, shaky sound that Jon makes might be a laugh. “No, no, you don’t. Does it hurt?”

“I- maybe? It’s numb.”

“Oh, that- yes, of course.” Jon’s hand stills on his face, then draws back suddenly; Martin lets it, but catches Jon’s fingers as they try to slide away. Jon lets out a shaky little noise. “I, uh, I think- I think it worked,” he whispers.

And Martin gasps, because- because it _did_. The sticky, prickling burden—of being watched, being seen, being known—is lifted. His vague awareness of something other, something looming and slowly consuming him—gone. Even, he realises with an unidentifiable mixture of feelings, the familiar weight of Jon’s eyes is absent.

“M-Martin?”

“Yeah,” he says, coming back to himself. He squeezes Jon’s hand. “Um, yeah, I think it did. I feel…” He grimaces. “I- I feel sick, actually.”

Jon sucks a tense breath. “Oh- should- do you need the nurse?”

Martin tries to shake his head and regrets it immediately. “Shit,” he groans. “No. I’m fine.” He instinctively tries to sit up straight, only to let out a warbling sound when the movement sends a wave of disorientation through his skull, more than a little nausea whisked into the current.

“Oh, Martin—” Jon’s hand pulls back, and there’s a frantic clicking sound. “L-l-l-lay down. The nurse is coming, d-don’t-don’t-”

“M’fine,” Martin groans, even as his body wilts under him, leaving his head floating, spinning, balloon-bobbing, about to burst into blood and pulp. “Jon, it-”

Pressure lands on each of Martin’s shoulders, anchoring him as he fights to sit up. It’s not much of a fight. One of the points of pressure lifts, then something touches Martin’s forehead, and the gentle stroke of hair from his face eases his head back down to where it belongs, resting above his shoulders. Human again—dizzy, sick, and numb, but human—Martin lets Jon lay him back down.

“Jon?”

“Yes?”

“I’m… I’m gonna sleep until the nurse gets here.”

Jon laughs a soft, “Oh,” which sounds equally fond and strained. “Of course, Martin. You’ve- uh, you deserve it.”

Martin means to say, “Yeah, I do,” but he doesn’t know if it makes it out before he drifts.

The first day passes like that, in stolen slips of consciousness and conversations that don’t quite stick in Martin’s mind. Eventually he comes fully back to himself. He has that same brief confusion about his location, but it resolves more quickly this time, eased by the familiar sound of Jon’s breathing. Martin lets himself smile at the comfort it brings him, because he’s quite drugged, thank you, and it’s okay if he gets a little giddy.

“Hey, Jon?”

“Martin!” A chair scrapes, and Jon takes his hand immediately. Martin winces at the pull of the IV, but doesn’t much mind. “Are you- do you feel any better?”

“You know, I really do?” Lesson learned, Martin doesn’t try to sit up this time. “Uh, what time is it? Actually- what _day_ is it?”

“Sunday, half noon. Your doctor wanted to talk to you when you woke up.” His tone drops into something quite uncharitable. “Alone, she emphasised. Told me to take a break.”

Martin snorts.

“What?”

“Oh, just amused that a medical professional took one look at you and decided you need a break.”

“Wh- well.” Jon huffs. “Anyway. I should- do you want me to ask for her?”

Martin considers for a moment, letting his fingers drift idly over Jon’s pulse point, adoring the hummingbird thrum of it. “You know I’ll be fine, right, Jon?”

The hand goes tense under his. “Of course you’ll be fine. They said you can come home tomorrow, so-”

“Not that,” Martin says, a little shaky from the casual way Jon just said _home_. “I meant: I’ll be fine if you leave for a bit. Take a moment for yourself.” He resists the urge to ask if Jon’s eaten anything since they’ve been here. He knows he hasn’t, and he doesn’t have the energy for an argument. “Go on a walk or something. Drink some tea.”

Jon laughs softly, and brushes Martin’s hair away from his forehead. The sensation is odd, fizzling into nothing as the hair skates across the partially numb place beneath the dressings. “You’re really telling me to go drink some tea right now?”

“I- yes. Yes, I am. Go drink some tea.”

With a truly dramatic sigh, Jon pulls his hands away. “Fine, fine. I’ll see if I can’t get your doctor in here.” The scrape of a chair, then a telltale low-spine _pop_ accompany Jon’s bitten-off groan. Martin swallows back the urge to chastise him for clearly sitting in an awful hospital chair for hours. They’ll work on it later.

Jon gives him a tentative little pat on the shoulder and says goodbye like he’s going to the continent instead of the canteen, then Martin is alone in the dark. He takes a few long, deep breaths, trying to center himself. The feeling is returning in increments to his eyes- his eye sockets? Christ. He expects pain, but it’s mostly discomfort, thatched through with a terrible itch that makes it hard to keep his hands off the dressings. He ends up holding onto his own fingers, thumb tapping anxiously on his thigh.

Footsteps approach after a while, and a professional, feminine voice introduces itself as Dr. Hendry. It strikes Martin that he will never know what she looks like. Reflexively he imagines her, but realises that he’s just picturing Elana from the Magnus library, and pushes the image away.

Dr. Hendry informs Martin that he has undergone enucleation, meaning his eyes have been removed. She tells him that despite the trauma he arrived with, everything went smoothly, and his eyelids are currently stitched shut to promote healing, and that clear silicone disks called conformers are now wedged behind them to prevent his vacuous occipital cavities from depressing. She lays out the recovery timeline—bandages off in five days, prosthetics in two months, indefinite six-month checkups after that—and tells him that a specialist will be by to give him information about local programs for the newly vision impaired, and that the hospital will provide him with a white stick for mobility. She also says, with a carefully diplomatic tone, that she has recommended he speak with a psychologist and a social worker before he is discharged, and that both of them will be in to talk to him shortly.

He absorbs this all, and he feels…

He doesn’t know what he feels. Being that his most recent personal crisis was resisting the urge to vanish preternaturally and live his life in a wasteland located a few degrees off of reality, this all seems… strange. He used to spend all of his time dealing with mundane catastrophes, and he’s realising now that maybe he’s forgotten how.

Great timing, as usual.

A few hours later, Martin hears Jon’s sharp steps down the hall and thinks for about half a second that he’s in the Archives, hearing the staccato approach of high-strung disapproval.

Jon may still be high-strung, but the way he says Martin’s name when he enters the room is… well. It’s certainly not disapproving.

Martin smiles. “Hi, Jon. I didn’t think you’d actually- well- take your time? Glad you did.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Jon grumbles. He sits in a heavy rush of fabric. Must still have his coat on. “I kept trying to come back in, but they said you were consulting with specialists and I was welcome to the waiting room until you were done. Oh- tea.”

Martin takes a moment to register the offer. He reaches hesitantly out, and his knuckles brush Jon’s hand, then beyond it, a hot cardboard cup. He takes it carefully as he can, bringing his other hand to cup it back to his chest. “Thanks. And, um, sorry about that? They had me talking with a, uh, psychologist? And then a social worker who was... not keen to leave.”

“What? Why?”

“Oh, he was just… uh, assuring me that pressing charges against a domestic abuser can be scary, but there are people who will support me every step of the way. All that.”

“Oh, Christ.” Jon sounds faint. “They think-?”

“Yeah, seems like it. I- I didn’t really contradict him? I’ve got the impression that the other option is inpatient mental health observation, so... I felt like leaving it ambiguous was our best bet. I mean, they can’t make me tell them what happened.”

Jon sighs, an emphasised thing that sounds like it’s puffed through his cheeks. Martin can picture that expression, the way his brows knit up and his eyes unfocus a bit. He misses it already.

It’s quiet for a moment.

“Jon? You okay?”

“I…” Jon sighs. He lets the silence hang for a few moments. Then he says, with a careful tone approaching full-on professionalism, “If you have any- any reservations about-” He stops, audibly fidgets with the heavy fabric of his coat. “I want you to tell me if you feel like you need any space. From me. I-I mean.” He drops into a murmur. “I _did_ do this to you.”

Christ. “Jon. You didn’t do anything to me. We did this together. I would have done it myself.”

“I asked you to, though, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did, and you know what? You were right. It worked! The ‘ceaseless watcher’,” he gives a single hand’s-worth of air quotes, “has ceased watching. It can’t behold shit. And, you know what? I haven’t felt this light in years.”

“Really?” Something tremors through Jon’s tone, and it might be relief.

“Yeah, really.”

“Alright. Good. I…” He pauses, and when he speaks again, it’s a bit muffled- maybe from behind his hand. “Sorry. The last time I performed impromptu surgery on a friend, she, uh, hah, she told me that she sees my face when she wakes up screaming.”

A small sound punches unbidden out of Martin, formless and made of pity. “Jon,” he murmurs. “You saved her from the Slaughter.”

“And traumatised her for life,” Jon chuckles, in that sarcastically lilting tone that makes him sound a hair's breadth from losing his mind.

Martin lays his hand on the bed, palm up. Jon takes it, and squeezes. Martin allows warmth to gather between them, and waits until Jon’s hand has relaxed before he speaks. “I mean, uh. For the sake of, um, full disclosure? I can’t say I’m not- thinking about it. Some.” He bites his lip and traces the crags between Jon’s knuckles with his thumb, settles in the basin of an ovular pockmark. “That memory’s gonna be with me forever. And, yeah, that’s- just, like, textbook trauma? But I’m- I’m not afraid of you, Jon. Really, I’m thankful. _Thank you_ for doing this for me.”

For a long, still moment, Jon is quiet. His breath shudders softly in the chemical-crisp air. Finally he blows out a particularly heavy breath, and says, “I-I suppose I- didn’t anticipate how hard it would be to see you this way. I-I-I’m just… trying to figure out what I could have- have done differently, so that you- that _we_ didn’t end up here.”

“Well, a lot of things, probably.” God knows Martin has lost sleep over that exact quandary. “But we’re here, now, right?”

Jon squeezes his hand. “I suppose we are. I’m sorry.”

“Jon. I just said—”

“No, no, I mean- generally. All of it. I’m. I’m sorry you ended up in this. That it took so much to get out of it.”

“Oh.” A deeply uncomfortable feeling surges to the inner corners of Martin’s eyes. He doesn’t identify it until he feels the tears dampen his dressigns. “I’m sorry, too, Jon. For you. I’m sorry that you ended up here.”

Jon gasps, a shaky little thing. He clears his throat. “Um. Th-thank you, Martin. But I don’t, um- I don’t mind where I’ve ended up.” He lays his other hand on Martin’s, which- Jesus. Okay, then.

“The doctor was in,” Martin says, because there are too many painkillers in his system to deal with this.

Jon’s hands pull away. Fair enough. “Oh, uh- r-right. What did she say?”

“Um, she just told me about how the surgery went, and what the follow-up appointments will be like. They’ll want to fit me for prosthetics in a few months.”

“Mm. You don’t look thrilled about that.”

“Yeah, um, I’m… not, really?” Martin turns the forgotten cup of tea in his hands, bites at his lip. “It- god, I know they wouldn’t even look anything like it, but I just- I keep thinking of—”

“The taxidermist,” Jon mutters. “I… uh. Had the same thought.” Martin only read the statements; he can’t imagine how Jon feels, having seen the Stranger’s spawn up close.

“And, with what we know about Elias, I’m not- not super excited about just having foreign eyes hanging around in my face all hours of the day?”

“Yes, that’s… probably a good instinct.”

“I thought so. I’ll just stick with the conformers, I guess?” Martin taps his fingers against his tea, letting the pads linger until the heat gets intense. “Would it- would it be weird if I kept wearing my glasses? My normal ones, I mean. I, um- I kind of prefer how I look with them on.”

“You look perfectly fine without them,” Jon says with a quick, dismissive tone that Martin hasn’t heard in a long time. ( _Martin Blackwood, looking bad without his glasses? There simply isn’t enough evidence. End recording._ ) “But of course you should do what makes you comfortable.”

“Oh. Um- thanks.” Martin goes incredibly warm, and tries to rationalise it by going in for a sip of steaming tea. He immediately jerks back, lip curled, not above sticking his tongue out. “Oh- this is- hmm.”

Jon laughs, deep and airy. “I’ll put the kettle on as soon as we get home.”

There it is again. _Home_. The warmth creeps up to Martin’s ears. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I’d really like that.”

* * *

True to his word, Jon puts the kettle on the moment they’re inside the cabin. Martin gives a perfunctory tap of his cane around the doorway as he enters, knowing that he’s supposed to be paying attention to the difference in vibrations as its tip hits various surfaces, but he can’t focus for the reek of stale blood.

“Ah… right,” Jon says, presumably interpreting Martin’s scrunched nose. “I... definitely should have come back and cleaned this while you were out of it.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“At least I remembered to put out the fire.”

Martin hums. “That would have been an unfortunate welcome home.”

 _Home_ hangs in the white noise. The creak of the foundation, the highland winds against the walls, and the distant call of crows all coalesce to cradle that idea, a thing Martin has hardly dared to crave since before he was old enough to understand how scarce a resource it was. Home.

Emotion tightens his throat. At the same moment, the headache that’s been crouched just behind his eye sockets swells outward into his temples. The combination leaves him making a small, helpless noise and clutching his cane in both hands.

Jon is at his side in an instant, herding him toward the couch. They pushed it back against the wall before they left, so Martin is able to drop into it and let his head rest against the wood panelling behind him. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Y-yes, just rest.” Jon’s footsteps retreat to the kitchen, and there’s a creak of hinges and the closing of a cabinet, then the tap running. The squeeze of Martin’s throat worsens as he finds himself longing: longing just to watch, to know exactly how Jon looks as he gets the glass of water, how his clever hands flutter as he uncaps the pill bottle with a click of plastic. The desire hits somewhere left of his heart, and he squirms at the realisation that it isn’t his; it’s something left behind, a residue of the thing that’s lived, parasitic, in the terrified throb of his pulse for years now.

“Here,” Jon says softly. Martin holds out his hand. The tips of Jon’s fingers brush him as the painkillers tumble into his palm. He tosses them back, then accepts the water and washes them down.

“Thanks. Could you put those to the right of the sink? So I can find them?”

“Oh, yes.” Jon’s voice carries a note of something… off. Martin can’t place it.

“What?”

“I, uh- hah. It’s just occurred to me that we didn’t bother to do anything to prepare the house.”

“Oh.” Martin rolls his cane absently against his thighs with the flat of his palms, calmed by the pressure of the metal against his muscles. “Well, I suppose I have a better idea of what I need now, at least?”

“I- suppose. I should have thought of it.”

For a moment, Martin feels he should reassure Jon, but- god, he’s tired. Considering he slept over thirty of the last forty-eight hours, he’s tempted to nurse the little twinge of guilt in his stomach, but he resists. He’s going to be exhausted either way. Might as well cut himself some slack. So, he rests.

After a moment, Jon starts to move around the house. He slinks through the hall and back into the kitchen, handling cupboards and the objects inside them with funny little sharp sounds, like he’s trying and actively failing not to make noise.

Martin smiles at the thought. “I’m not sleeping, you know,” he says. “And you’re a bit rubbish at being quiet.”

“I—” Jon sputters, then breaks, huffing a small laugh. “Yes, I am. Sorry.”

“S’fine. Like I said. Don’t mind me.”

After that, Jon’s endeavours rise to an open clatter, underpinned by a stream-of-consciousness mutter that Martin finds deeply endearing, if not slightly manic. The old-blood stench blooms through the room as various cleaning supplies enter the equation. It’s not a great odour, but it’s hardly the worst-smelling body fluid Martin has encountered, so he makes a quick peace with it. He does feel a bit twitchy doing nothing while someone cleans up a mess that he ostensibly made, but the thought of going near that table leaves him a bit ill.

He… might be eating on the couch for the foreseeable future.

“We’ll have to do laundry soon,” Jon says after a while, a swipe of skin suggesting that he’s dusting his hands together. “I saw a washboard under the sink.”

Martin groans, already feeling the burn of scrubbing in his forearms. The couch jerks as Jon collapses onto it with a small laugh.

“What?” Jon says, sly. “Is that too retro for you?”

“Um, excuse me, retro is analogue technology and seventies colours. Using a washboard to get blood out of blankets is some- some Oregon Trail shit.”

Jon snorts. “I doubt we’ll be dying of dysentery. Though, over a hundred and forty million people worldwide still contract it every year, resulting in about six hundred thousand deaths.” It goes silent. Jon sucks in a breath. “Oh.”

“Fun fact,” Martin says, a bit strangled.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s- don’t worry.” Martin sighs and starts to fiddle with his cane again. “Have you thought about—”

“Ow! _Martin!_ ”

Martin will say this for the cane: he can absolutely tell that what he just whacked was bone. “Jon! Oh, my god, I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

Jon laughs, and Martin feels less awful, though only just. The laugh twists into a small groan. “It’s alright. It- surprised me.”

Quite flushed now, Martin sheepishly rests his cane upright next to him, like the nice lady at the hospital told him to do when sitting. “Sorry. Sorry. This thing is- I didn't think it’d be so long.”

“Didn’t they say that was the short one?”

“Yeah, I think so? She said I should get one adjusted up to my chin if I’d like, when I’m more experienced.”

Jon chuckles. “Ah. I think it’s safe to say that this isn’t ‘experienced user’ behaviour.”

“I’ve had it for, like, five hours! I’m doing my best!”

“Yes, that’s what I’ll tell my elbow when it’s purple in the morning.”

Martin winces. “Is it that bad?”

“No, no. It’s fine, Martin, really.”

The barest flicker of movement ghosts over Martin’s arm; he doesn’t register it as Jon’s hand until it’s gone again. He resists touching the place where his skin still tingles, hairs slightly disturbed.

Unable to bear the sudden silence, Martin blurts, “So, I thought those courses the specialist mentioned actually sound really helpful?”

Jon makes a small, startled noise at Martin’s volume. “O-oh. Yes, I, uh, I thought so, too.”

“Yeah.” Awkward silences, Martin is learning, are very bad when he can’t retreat into looking at his phone. It’s a bit less subtle to actually pull out his earbuds and start running the screen reader. Not that he has many apps that can run without a signal out here.

“You’d go?” Jon says after a moment.

“Wh- oh, to the classes? Yeah. Maybe.” Martin rolls his knuckles on his thighs, taps the sides of his thumbs asynchronously against the denim. “I- maybe I should wait for you, though? So we can go together?”

Jon huffs through his nose. “That is… extremely practical.”

“Mm. They do call me Martin ‘Extremely Practical’ Blackwood for a reason.”

“And the reason is that they’re bad at nicknames, or…?”

Martin laughs, and feels heat creep up the back of his neck. “You should know, I would not have found that funny without the drugs.”

“You’re on paracetamol,” Jon says, his smirk audible.

“That’s-! That’s neither here nor there.”

Jon’s laugh is warm, so warm that Martin suddenly can’t stand it. He jerks to his feet, ignoring the headrush and resulting thunder in his skull.

He opens his mouth to say something, and, “We should go for a walk,” comes out. That’s- yes. That’s fine, actually. “To practice,” he adds quickly, uncertainty wobbling his voice as he picks up his cane.

“Oh,” Jon stands, too, with a soft hiss. “I-I suppose?”

“Not far. If your leg—”

“No, I’m fine. _Really_.” (Martin’s mouth, opened to contest that, snaps shut.) “You don’t need to be going far, either.”

And certainly, Martin can’t argue with that. The nausea still swells through his gut occasionally, and although the paracetamol has kicked in, it isn’t doing much against what he thinks might be one of those migraines he’s heard so much about. Taking stock of all this, he’s just about to retract his suggestion. But then Jon asks,

“Would you like my arm?”

and Martin only has so much strength.

“Yeah,” he says, far too softly, and reaches to wind his hand into the crook of Jon’s elbow. As his fingers slide over the familiar pattern of the jumper, he can’t help but smirk. “This isn’t mine, anymore, is it?”

Jon stiffins. “Oh! I- I honestly forgot. You can have it back if—”

“No, it’s fine.” Giggles well up in him, and he swallows them down because he’s thirty-one goddamn years old and he needs to start conserving the dignity he has left. “Keep it. I’ve got plenty.”

“Ah, th-thanks.”

With the arm of the man he loves tucked close, feeling his own clothes sheltering that dear body, Martin feels that he’s the one who should be thankful. His feet, as the two of them step into the soft post-rain air, feel a bit like they’re floating. But he’s here. He’s in his body, every corner of it, and he soaks in Jon’s warmth, and notes each jutter as he works to find a rhythm with his cane.

He is here. And he is… okay.

* * *

There is something very wrong with the popcorned ceiling of Martin’s bedroom.

He blinks at it, hoping each time his eyes open that something will have changed, adjusted, focused. It doesn’t help. The flecks of pebbled plaster move. They shift. They _writhe_. Stomach curdling, Martin rolls over to press his face into his pillow. He shimmies lower under the duvet and tries not to think of that dreadful statement about the blanket. For some reason, his room feels too still, too quiet. Someone, he thinks, should be breathing. But that doesn’t make any sense. He lives here alone. He’s alone.

_Knock. Knock._

The twin raps shudder through the bedframe, through Martin. His joints lock. The breath dies in his throat. That felt like—

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

It’s under the bed. He’s facing it, though only the dark of the pillow meets his wide-blown eyes. He feels the vibration acutely through the wood, the mattress, his sternum, as it knocks again.

_Knock._

Slowly, arms shaking, he lifts from his sheets. His movement foments a foul smell, old and rancid. For a moment he thinks it’s his own sweat, sticking his bedclothes to him like it did when he had nightmares as a child, but it’s deeper than that. Richer. More familiar, even than his own musk.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

Martin flips onto his back. The ceiling squirms. Pieces of it begin to drop. He forgets that he shouldn’t scream, and one hits his teeth. He thrashes upright and scrapes the worm out of his mouth. The bed quakes beneath him:

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Worms begin to litter his hair, catch in the cuffs of his flannel pyjamas, tumble down the back of his shirt. He throws himself off the far corner of the bed, lunging for the door.

Jane Prentiss’s hand snatches his ankle. He falls hard, bruising his stomach, slamming his chin, cracking his teeth together. He rolls in her grip and wails behind his clenched jaw. She’s hardly more than worms beneath the shadow of his bed, but she drags him with the strength of a complete being, a thing made perfect by the fear turning Martin’s sweat sour. Martin scrabbles at the floor. As his nails scrape the carpet, the fibre breaks away, live and wriggling.

She drags Martin’s leg under the bed. The burrowing begins. Martin bites his tongue until he tastes blood. He throws his head back for a last glimpse of- of his bedroom, of normalcy, of something.

The shape he sees, knelt on his floor, fills him with equal measures of love and fear.

Martin meets Jon’s eyes—all of them.

Then he wakes, shouting.

It’s bad, trying to reorient himself while unable to simply open his eyes and remind himself of what’s real. He grips the sheets until he feels a fitted elastic edge pop off the corner of the mattress. The sensation is good, that real-life depth of texture that’s so much more solid than the phantom pinch of a dream. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here and he’s- he’ll be okay soon. He has to be.

“Martin?” Jon’s voice croaks, shaky and fissured, from somewhere near the floor. On instinct, Martin shifts to the edge of his bed and reaches down. Jon’s hands lock onto him, one on his forearm and the other pressing nails into his triceps through the flab of his underarm. He winces, but it grounds him, and it seems to calm Jon. He lets his upper body hang a bit off the bed, his free hand supporting his weight on Jon’s mattress.

Sharply, desperately, Jon says, “Tell me I wasn't in your dream.”

Martin tries to swallow. His mouth is dry. “I think you were.” He sounds so small. He feels smaller. “It- it was hard to tell, with the, uh—”

“With all the eyes,” Jon whispers. A soft weight presses against Martin’s shoulder; Jon’s sleep-wild hair tickles his cheek. “Well. _Fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> -While urging Jon to take better care of his health, Martin admits that he's worried Jon is unconsciously engaging in food-restricting behavior, and says that he sees this as self-harm. This discussion begins when Martin says, “Jon, I need to talk to you about something.”  
> -In the past-tense section, Martin thinks that Jon's stab wound from Michael is self-inflicted. He becomes very upset by the thought that Jon could be self-harming. Actual acts of self-harm are not described in any detail.  
> -The blinding scene begins with "Jon's hands sweep gently over the blanket(...)" The graphic content begins after "The pain is indescribable." Martin remains distressed and in pain until he says, “I- I think- I think I’m gonna faint[.]” at the end of the 5th section.  
> -Martin and Jon go to the hospital, and several medical conversations are had throughout their time there. This continues from “ _ **Martin!**_ ” until the section beginning with "True to his word, Jon puts the kettle on(...)"  
> -A social worker at the hospital thinks that Martin is a victim of domestic abuse perpetrated by Jon. This is not explored in any detail; the conversation happens off-screen, and Martin mentions it to Jon later. This happens just after the following dialogue: “Thanks. And, um, sorry about that? They had me talking with a, uh, psychologist? And then a social worker who was... not keen to leave.”
> 
> \--
> 
> it's always something with these two [sitcom laughter]
> 
> i did a fair amount of research about enucleation, but i couldn’t figure out if you can or should actually wear conformers long-term after eye-removal. it’s almost universal to get an ocular prosthetic, and frankly in this context Jon and Martin are being little bitches about it because glass eyes look very natural and not at all like creepy taxidermy eyes. i'll grant them the Elias thing though.
> 
> anyway thank you for reading so far! comments give me the will to go on!! <3


	4. i want you around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the working title for this chapter was "Newsflash, Asshole! You've Needed Therapy The Entire Goddamn Time!"
> 
> TWs: verbal abuse, dissociation, wound care, discussion of self-harm  
> (please visit end note for more details)

“They’re just dreams,” Martin says, mouth dry.

A sleep-stale sigh ruffles Martin’s collar. Jon still clings close, forehead to shoulder. “At- at the hospital,” he says. “You dreamt about Prentiss then, too?”

“I… yeah.” Between the exhaustion and the drugs, Martin doesn’t remember the dream well, but he remembers Jon. He remembers the eyes. He doesn’t think he can forget. “So that- it was really you?”

“I—” Jon turns deeper against Martin’s shoulder. A protective surge shoots through him—as does fatigue from balancing the weight of his upper body on one arm—and suddenly it seems stupid not to be next to Jon. Groaning, he pushes upright, then he swings his legs over the side of the bed. Feeling his feet land in an unoccupied stretch of Jon’s sheets, he slides down onto the trundle’s lower mattress, back resting against the upper one.

For a moment, the room is still and silent. Then a whisper of sheets, and warmth draws near to Martin's side. Jon doesn’t actually touch him, but his shaky breathing evens out the longer they sit beside each other.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Martin whispers. He feels like he’s just shouted.

Jon laughs, pinched and wet and bitter. He makes a pitiful noise, tucked deep in his throat.

“I-I don’t know if I have the words.”

Martin tips his head back, then frowns as he realises that he can’t stare at the ceiling. Only two nights here, and the exposed oak slats became a familiar maze into which he could herd his thoughts while his eyes drifted along the woodgrain. He misses it. He misses Jon’s stupidly expressive face.

“Don’t,” Jon says, and it’s only at the weight of a hand on his wrist that Martin realises he was about to touch his dressings. Jon’s fingers skim away. Martin lets his hand fall gently between them.

“Jon, did it—” Martin breaks off, swallows back a small distressed sound, wonders if enough time has passed to take another dose of painkillers. Pressure has begun to rise from the depths of his skull, and his sockets feel- weird. Bad. His eyelids keep trying to flutter, nowhere to go, stitches pulling. When he gets his voice back, it shakes. “It did work, right? If-if this was all for nothing, Jon, christ, I—”

“No,” Jon says emphatically. Martin tenses. “Ah- I-I mean- _yes_ , I-I think it worked. And no, this- this wasn’t for nothing.” Slowly, gently, such that Martin feels it coming, Jon wraps their hands together. “You said you thought it worked, right? What- what exactly made you feel that way?”

Martin tries to even his breathing. His chest is so tight. “Um, I don’t feel watched anymore? Like, the little, kind of baseline paranoia I’ve lived with since I started at the institute, it’s just- gone. A-and the prickly feeling on the back of my neck? That, too.”

“Mm. That’s- that’s good. Anything else?”

Martin lets himself think, his thumb idly tracing the leathered valleys of Jon’s burn. “I’m not sure. I really miss, um, seeing, you know? But that’s probably just...” He gestures limply at his own face. Jon makes a sympathetic noise.

“I, uh… yes. I think it’s safe to say that it worked. I, um,” Jon’s hand tightens in Martin’s for a moment, a motion so brief that it might be a spasm. Martin presses his thumb gently into Jon’s palm; the tight muscle starfishes at his touch. Jon sighs, soft.

“I can’t See you anymore.” Jon’s whisper settles between them with the weight of a confession.

“Is… is that hard for you?”

Jon huffs a weak half-laugh. “It’s—” He goes silent. Martin allows it to hang for a few breaths.

“You can tell me, Jon,” he says gently, gently.

Another spasm takes Jon’s hand. He pulls it from Martin’s, and it seems that the moment has passed. But then Jon says, “It’s driving me mad. I- I can look at you, I can- I can touch you,” his voice shakes over that part, which Martin doesn't know what to do with, “but I keep- it’s like the Eye misses you. I, uh, I- I just can’t stop trying. But when I do…”

Jon goes silent. His breaths grow heavy. He scrapes out a noise of exertion. Then he gasps and falls back against the upper bed. He pants, the intensity of it palpable through the mattress.

“Ah- hah, yeah. There’s just… nothing. I know you’re there, I can- with my eyes, I can see you, but when I try to _See_ you, you’re-you’re-you’re- _gone_. There’s just- just absence. Just- just post-Martin space.”

Despite himself, Martin laughs.

The indignance of Jon’s tone feels like an old friend. “Are you- laughing at me? I- I- I _shared_ —”

“No,” Martin assures him, although he is, indeed, laughing. “No, sorry, just. Post-Martin space?”

“W- I don’t know! There isn’t- vernacular for these things!”

“Sorry! It just- got me.”

“Fine. Negative space, then. It’s very—”

Suddenly and with hammer-sharp intensity, Martin’s headache worsens. He sucks air through his teeth. This is what he gets for laughing.

“Oh,” Jon says, tone stripped bare by worry. “Martin. You should be resting, I—”

“It’s fine.” Martin waves Jon off even as he slumps to pillow his head on the corner of his mattress. “I don’t think I’m going back to sleep. Not-! Not because of you, I just- I’m awake now, so...”

“I get it,” Jon murmurs.

Martin grins, though it twists quickly into a grimace. “I suppose you would.”

They’re quiet for a long while. Noises emerge from the silence, fauna and wind, the creaking of the cabin, a few lovesick crickets still trying their luck. It’s much louder out here than Martin first thought. He wonders if it’s the elapsed time away from London, or if he’s just paying more attention now.

“Why do you think you can see me in my dreams, but not when we’re awake?”

It takes Jon so long to answer that Martin begins to wonder if he’s just going to ignore the question. But eventually, he sighs and says,

“I, uh- I, uh- I-I really don’t know.” Fear twists his voice, a naked sound that makes Martin want to tuck him close. Jon would fit so neatly into his arms, face just the right height to tuck beneath Martin’s chin, to receive a kiss on his scarred forehead.

Martin pushes the thought aside and works his fingers into the well-loved flannel of his pyjamas. “Well. We don’t have to solve the world’s problems tonight.”

“No,” Jon huffs, “that’s next week.”

Martin smiles, small, a bit less ambitious. “There, that’s the spirit.”

In agreement that the night is shot, the two of them rise for the day at this, the ripe hour of 3:27 AM. Martin takes his next dose of paracetamol and wills it to kick in quickly. He trails a hand along the wall on his way to the kitchen, mostly confident in his knowledge of the floorplan but not willing to bet a stubbed toe on it. The kettle sits on the back-right burner, where Jon said it would be, and it’s easy enough to get the water going. He didn’t think to ask Jon to organise the teas, but they’re easily identifiable by smell. A bag of vanilla chai goes into each mug. Caffeine will probably make his head worse, but after tonight’s revelations, he isn’t in any hurry to sleep again.

Jon’s sock-muffled footsteps emerge from the hall after a bit, and Martin smiles and holds one cup of tea out for him.

“Should we start on the laundry today?”

“Hm.” Jon takes the proffered mug. “There’s a bank of nimbostratus clouds coming in from the west, wind speed twenty-two miles per hour,” he says easily, like he’s- well, like he’s talking about the weather. “It’ll be pouring all day. I don’t know where we’d hang the drying in here.”

Martin barks a startled, fond laugh. “Wow. Pursuing a career in meteorology, then?”

“O- oh,” Jon says, surprised. “I suppose.” He sips his tea rather loudly, then hisses through his teeth.

“Watch that. It’s quite hot.” Martin doesn’t even try to hide his smile.

“Yes, thank you,” Jon says archly. Martin hears him fidgeting, nervous little sounds that he can’t quite identify. “I- really. Thanks.”

“For…?”

“I, uh- the tea?”

“Oh. Um, sure? This is, like,” Martin chuckles awkwardly, “the thousandth cup of tea I’ve made you?”

Jon clears his throat. “Well, then. Um, thank you. For all of them.”

Affection swells through Martin’s chest, like a goddamn dove puffing up. “Uh- um, yeah, no problem, Jon. It’s really no trouble? It’s, um, calming. Meditative, kind of? So.” He shrugs.

“You’re just—” Jon’s voice tightens off. Martin has to consciously stop himself from leaning forward. “I appreciate it,” Jon says finally.

 _I’m just what?_ Martin wants to shout, but instead he nods and clutches his tea close. “Yeah. Sure, Jon.” When did he start saying Jon’s name so reverently?

God, it’s too early for this.

Eventually they finish their tea and agree that it’s high time to organise the house. They start in the kitchen, arranging the few appliances and utensils for accessibility and safety. They share a chuckle over the thought of Daisy returning to find all of her things rearranged.

“And,” Martin says, “she won’t be able to say anything about it, because that would be a dick move.”

Jon snorts, the sound muffled by the cabinet he’s leaning into. “As if dick moves aren’t Daisy’s modus operandi.”

Martin smiles, because apparently it’s very endearing that the pretentious academic crouched by his feet won’t just say “M.O.” like a normal person. “Will she come around, you think?”

“She said she would, to get the car. You want to keep the saucepan on the counter?”

“Sure, give it here.” Martin takes the pan and slides it next to the other essentials that have moved to the counter, where they can be accessed easily. He runs his fingers over the variety of textures and shapes, trying to put the thought he’s having into words. “I guess I meant… later?”

Jon’s rummaging stills. “What?”

“Like, if- do you think Daisy would visit later? If- _when_ things settle down?”

“...You’d stay here, after things settled down?” There’s a carefulness to Jon’s tone, an affected nonchalance.

Martin’s head reels. “W- of course, Jon! I-if Daisy doesn’t mind, I mean? But- yeah, yes. Where else would I go?”

A cabinet squeaks, and its contents clatter around as Jon presumably inspects them. He doesn’t respond.

Martin’s stomach drops. “Would you? Stay here—?”

“Yes,” Jon says before Martin is finished asking. He sucks a sharp breath, as if surprised by his own forwardness. Then continues, “Yes. I-I want to stay with- I want to stay.”

Okay. Okay, so Jon wants to— okay, he wants to live together indefinitely. And so does Martin. And now they’re just stood here, not talking about it.

God, Martin wants to throttle him. They’re dancing around it, at this point. All he can guess is that Jon... doesn’t. Doesn’t feel the same, either because he doesn’t have those kinds of feelings about people at all, or he doesn’t look at Martin and see anything he likes. Which is fine. That’s been the _modus operandi_ since the day Martin admitted to himself that he maybe had a little crush on Jonathan Sims. Why would it change, now that he’s helplessly, miserably wrapped up in him, now that he’s trusted himself completely to Jon’s mercy, let him take a literal blade to him and—

“Martin?”

Martin flinches. “Wha—?”

“I, uh- I’m- i-if I’ve made you uncomfortable…”

Wildly, Martin tracks back through the conversation. Oh, god. Jon said that he wanted to stay here, and Martin just went quiet on him. “No! No, you haven’t, sorry, I was—” Martin gestures vaguely, indicating his head and the sky and the lasting ache of unrequited love. “I just fell into my head. I’m so used to it now, sometimes I just— it doesn’t matter. I’m glad you want to stay, Jon. You shouldn’t be alone, either.”

Jon breathes a small, “Ah,” and there’s so much relief in that syllable that a lump twists into Martin’s throat.

“I want you around,” he says, because he doubts anyone has said that to Jon in a long time.

Judging by the punched-out quality of Jon’s voice, he’s right. “That's- ah, um, good to know.” He’s quiet for a moment, then his voice returns with a bit more strength. “Do you see yourself using a hand-mixer?”

“Um. Electric?”

“Of course not.”

Martin sighs. “There go my plans for that meringue. Five inches tall, it was.”

“A tragic loss,” Jon sighs, with just a bit of put-on melancholy.

Martin smiles. For the moment, he forgets about the dreams.

* * *

Even after all this time, Martin never expects to see a door in the tunnels. It sits deep in the rough-hewn stone, and it calls to him, an incongruity and yet a given. He does not know to fear doors—hasn’t learned that lesson yet—but the hair on the back of his neck still stands on end as the phantom sound of Michael’s laughter curdles the air.

He tears the door open, then slams it behind him. He throws his back into the wood and heaves for breath, bending to relieve the pressure on the stitch in his side, hands clenched in the knees of his jeans. When the black bordering his vision begins to recede, he lifts his head to take in the shape of his sanctuary.

The first time he found her body, he screamed. Now he gazes upon the leathered knobs of her hands, and the grey hair thick with cobwebs, and he makes no sound at all.

Martin pushes off of the door, exhaustion forgotten, and rounds the table to stand over the corpse. She was a tall woman once, he thinks. The few times they met in person, she hunched; an affectation, he knows now. A fine silver chain plays through the folds of her cardigan’s rumpled collar, attached at its ends to reading glasses. One lens sports a lick of crusted brown blood, and the other lies shattered beneath her rotting cheek.

Slowly, she turns her head. The glass scrapes and crunches against the table.

Martin shrinks from her. She does not have eyes, but her look of disapproval is a physical weight all the same.

“Goddamn it,” she spits, “didn’t I tell you to piss off? Why are you still here?”

Martin steels himself and moves to her side. His hands look huge and clumsy on her withered arms, but he lifts her with care, always with care. He eases her upright in the chair, and goes about righting her glasses. They slip right off, because the soft cartilage of her nose is long rotted.

“Just fuck off.” Her spittle flecks Martin’s cheek. He goes still and closes his eyes. Deep breaths. It’s worse if she sees him cry.

“I’m staying with you,” he says, calm and steady.

“You’ve done enough,” she spits.

“I’m not leaving you here, Mum.”

“You already did, Paul.”

And then he sees it, clear as the phantom touch of Elias’s fingers on his temples. He sees what she thinks of him with gut-twisting clarity, and he understands: he feels her fury pumping his heart, and his neurons fire with thoughts he never would have come to on his own, and he sees his father, and he sees himself, and he _hates_ what he sees.

Then his eyes are not the only ones upon him.

The Archivist’s scrutiny folds in around his own. It narrows in, stares down, until there is not enough space left for Martin to see himself. He closes his two eyes to escape the hundreds wedged around him.

But the Archivist doesn’t want that. Its fingertips touch his eyelids, and slowly, carefully, pry them apart. Every pupil beseeches him, each disparate eye asking him a different unspoken question, parched for his undivided attention. It feels as if it has grabbed him by each joint in his body and _pulled_ until they dislocated one by one, leaving him a formless mess in the prison of his skin.

“Jon,” he shudders. Lashes brush his lips. “Stop, pl-please.”

The Archivist falters. The eyes blink.

It only takes the pressure of Jon’s palm on Martin’s shoulder to wake him. Martin shouts. The hand startles away, and he reaches wildly for it. Jon indulges him, lets himself be caught, enfolds Martin’s hand into both of his.

Martin does not breathe so much as gasp.

“Hey, hey. Can- can you sit up?” Jon’s voice sounds so very small. It’s as much for Jon as for himself when he pulls himself upright. Jon’s hands leave his, and for a moment, this only shallows his breath. Then one hand settles in the center of his chest, and the other mirrors it over his spine, and they both press, tethering Martin to his shaking body.

“Is this alright?” Jon whispers.

Martin nods. Jon’s palm begins to work slow, soothing loops over the expanse of his back.

“I’m- I’m so sorry, Martin,” drags ragged from Jon’s throat.

Halfway to rubbing the itch of tears at the edges of his eyelids, Martin remembers his dressings and grips his own ankles to anchor his hands. The gauze feels soaked through, tacky and cold. He takes a few hiccupping breaths before he manages to speak.

“You- y-you saw?”

Jon’s face presses against his shoulder, breath hot and wet. “I, uh, I did. I did.” His hand stutters on Martin’s back, then continues anticlockwise. “Sorry,” he whispers.

Martin swallows hard, a chore with his thickened, dried husk of a throat. “It- it’s alright, Jon. You can’t help it,” he whispers. “I-I bet it’s- really horrible, being stuck in people’s nightmares.”

“As the one causing them, I, uh, I don’t think I’m in a position to feel sorry for myself.” The hand on Martin’s chest trembles slightly. Jon tightens it into a fist. “Martin, I-I wouldn’t put you through that on purpose. I hope you know that.”

“You didn’t put me through anything, Jon. I mean, it’s- I don’t, uh, love having my- my deepest nightmares- uh, hah, audited? But I’ve been having that one for, like, two years now, so. I’m… kinda used to it?”

Jon stiffens. “Sorry, what?”

“Um, that dream? I started having it after I found Gertrude’s body. I mean, it varies, but it’s a regular.”

Jon’s head lifts from Martin’s shoulder. His tone is carefully clear. “That was just- a dream? A regular dream that you have?”

“Uh. Yes?”

“Oh. I didn’t… oh.”

“What— Sorry, does that mean something?”

“Yes,” Jon murmurs in that vague, ominous tone that really sets Martin’s teeth on edge. An equally ominous pause follows, which Martin does not care for, either. Finally, Jon continues,

“I’ve- I’m in people’s dreams, but I’m not in their minds. Both the dreamer and I are in the domain of Beholding, brought there by Its power. The world that we perceive there is informed by their statements. They bring their story, and I bring my- ah—”

“Eyes?” Martin suggests.

“Um, well, yes, essentially. But I’ve never seen anyone’s- anyone’s actual dreams, their mind, o-or their subconscious outside of the Eye’s interest. So this is, um. New territory.”

That doesn’t sound promising. “Okay…? So why would me cutting myself off from the eye make it _easier_ to see inside my head?”

“Ah… I don’t… I don’t know.”

Fair enough, Martin supposes. He sighs, and files it away with the hundred other things he doesn’t want to think too hard about.

“Um,” Jon begins haltingly after a moment, “Martin, if- if you want to talk about the dream. About your mother. I’m—”

“No.” Martin doesn’t raise his voice, but he says it firmly, with finality. “No, I- I don’t.”

“Okay.”

Martin unclenches his hands from his crossed ankles. He runs his fingertips along the clefts left by his nails, dips and peaks pressed so close together that they could be a child’s crayon interpretation of a choppy ocean. If he strains, he can hear the waves breaking.

“Um.” The sound of his own voice brings him back to the room. “I don’t suppose now is a good time to get up for the day?”

Jon hums grimly. “How does one AM strike you?”

“Bad.” Martin wilts. He’s knackered from last night’s terrible sleep and the ensuing day of housework. But, god, he does not want to dream again. “Well. I can probably kip a bit, at least,” he says with entirely false optimism.

“I suppose it’s worth trying.”

Chills settle in as Jon withdraws his hands. When Jon stands, Martin becomes aware for the first time of the dip he’d made in the mattress; in his absence, gravity shifts, and Martin feels suddenly and very acutely alone. He lies there in his bed, and Jon in his, and both of them pretend that they’re trying to sleep.

Neither is.

* * *

For the next few days, Martin sleeps very poorly. The continuous darkness blurs his awareness of night and day, leaving his mind to its own anxious turns regardless of whether he’s supposed to be resting. It puts the insomnia of his stressed youth to shame.

When he does manage to fall asleep, then come the nightmares. Jon’s presence in his dreams doesn’t make them more frequent—he wasn’t exaggerating when he called them regulars—but it does make them more vivid. Instead of blurring at the edges as he gasps awake, the images stay sharp in his mind, and he can’t even open his eyes to reorient himself to reality. He’s done his best to ground himself by clutching the sheets, wrapping his arms around himself, reaching for Jon’s hand, but nothing quite relieves the visions creeping, unimpeded, through the neurons left barren by his sight.

And the dreams leave him feeling… raw. Martin is no stranger to having his day soured by a bad dream, but this is different. These nightmares dredge things up from crevices he’s worked hard to wedge them into, ripping emotions from his depths and dragging them dizzily to the goosebumped surface of his skin. He finds himself thinking, often, about that diver who should have died of decompression sickness in her flee from The Vast.

Jon does his best, but his guilt is obvious and difficult to skirt around. Martin spends a lot of time trying to nail down how, exactly, someone can _sound_ self-loathing without even speaking, but whatever the case, Jon is good at it. It’s probably the sighing. There’s a lot of sighing.

They should really talk about it. Or, more accurately, Martin’s instinct is to talk about it. But they’ve said all they can say, haven’t they, without broaching the terrifying implications of what this means for Jon’s humanity. It’ll be a non-issue soon, at least. One way or the other. Martin tries not to think about it.

Life goes on.

On Friday afternoon, the rhythmic _snick_ of the vegetable knife in Jon’s hand stutters, and he says, “My god, it’s been a week.”

Tasked with rinsing the rice, Martin shuts off the tap. “Wha- really?”

“Really.” Jon chuckles, and goes back to slicing.

“That’s…” Martin doesn’t know what that is. He runs the water again. If through some clairvoyance he’d seen this moment a week ago, himself blind and bandaged and working the starch out of the Basmati rice that had made Jon smile at the grocer’s, he’d have thought it was some trick of The Lonely. Peter taunting him, maybe, with visions of an impossible future, a connection he’d never get to have, something he could rip away with the last of Martin’s resolve.

But it’s real, and he knows it’s real because anxiety makes a sailor’s knot in his gut, and he’s had a headache for four days straight, and last night he sat in the bath and cried until the water went cold enough to leave him shaking. He’s still Lonely.

Not alone, though.

“It seems like we’ll have clear skies for a couple of days,” Jon says softly.

Martin realises he’s standing there wasting water, and probably wearing his piteous thoughts far too openly. He huffs a flat little laugh at himself, and sets the sieve aside to reach for the bowl waiting ready by the sink.

“Sounds nice.”

“Mm. Good day for laundry.”

Martin groans. “It’s never a good day for laundry.”

Jon chuckles. “I’ll wash, you dry?”

By “dry,” of course, he means clothes-pinning the laundry to the line they found stored in Daisy’s bathroom cabinet. “No, I pull my weight, thank you,” Martin sniffs. He leaves the rice to soak and turns toward Jon, who, by the smell of it, has started into an onion. “I’ll take care of those blankets.”

He can practically hear Jon’s brow furrow. “You shouldn't have to do that.”

Martin breathes a soft _tch_ and waves Jon off. “I have a long and colourful history of home stain removal. I’m practically a professional.”

“Oh, are you, then? That one wasn’t on the CV.”

Startled, Martin laughs. “None of your business what’s on my CV anymore, Jon. I think my resignation was quite clear.”

Jon snickers. “Good lord, Martin. Too soon.”

After they’ve cooked, enjoyed, and cleaned up after a rich vegetarian curry, Martin and Jon carry all of their laundry outside. Jon gathers the needed soaps and stain removing agents while Martin starts plying the iron pump in the yard. By the time water begins to slosh at his feet, his arms thrum with a satisfying ache. There’s something rewarding in the simplicity of it, a tangible gratification that he’s been denied in the doldrums of admin work.

The actual washing, despite Martin’s earlier lighthearted complaints, is pleasant. The breeze swells up the hillside, soothing any heat built by the light manual labour. Between their working hands, water laps softly, interspersed with the rhythmic scrubs of thick-bristled brushes. Occasionally, knuckles skim knuckles. Jon, at one point, begins to hum. Martin tucks his smile against his shoulder and resists his urge to hum along.

Soon, they pin the last of the blankets on the line. Martin stands back to listen to the flutter of fabric and inhale the fresh, if slightly artificial, scent playing through the sheets.

He sighs, content. “Is it as idyllic as I’m picturing?”

“Oh, moreso.” There’s a thump of wood and a soft splash, followed by a muffled curse. “Damn. Could you help me tip this out?”

Martin smiles. “Nothing I’d like more.”

He means it.

* * *

On the fifth day after Martin loses his eyes, he sits at the table in front of the toast and fruit that he (carefully) sliced for their breakfast, and says, “God, I don’t want to go back to hospital.”

Across the table, Jon crunches on an apple. This is his seventh consecutive meal. Martin does not commend him on this, because he knows Jon would find it very patronising. Still, he’s proud.

“I don’t see why you have to,” Jon says.

“Um. To make sure I don’t have an infection? Or- or that my face doesn’t cave in or something?”

“I can check for that.”

Martin hopes that his deadpan expression reads through the bandages. “You.”

“Yes, me,” Jon says rather indignantly.

“I thought you couldn’t know things about me anymore.”

Another crunch of apple. “I can’t. But I’ve- I’ve found myself Knowing a lot about enucleation, lately. Eyes in general.”

“Seriously? The eye’s just sharing its- its cheat codes with you?”

“No. Sort of the opposite. It’s letting me Know about everything that could go wrong. I think… I think the Eye has a vested interest in, uh, deterring me.”

Martin kerbs his urge to start tapping his fork against the table. “Are you?”

“Hm?”

“Deterred?”

“Of course not,” Jon says darkly. “I told you I’m doing this. God knows I’ve seen enough horrible things. Having botched surgeries beamed into my mind in hi-def when I’m trying to brush my teeth isn’t going to stop me.”

Martin drops his fork. “Wh- sorry, beholding is making you _watch_ eye surgery gone wrong!?”

“And See post-op infections.”

“And see-!? How often is it doing this?”

“Often enough.”

“Jesus, Jon. That’s—”

“Unavoidable,” Jon says coolly, “and minor, as far as our problems go. All that to say,” he stands with a scrape of his chair, “I know exactly what to look out for, if you want to avoid going back to hospital.”

Martin huffs, almost a laugh, but not quite. He remembers Basira, and the look on her face that said _This might as well happen_ when Jon revealed how to Quit. “You know what? Okay. Screw it. Let’s use the evil, forbidden knowledge for the forces of good.”

This is how Martin ends up seated by the table late that afternoon, bracing himself for the worst. Jon sits facing him, and has drawn his own chair so close that his knees rest between Martin’s. It’s… intimate. Martin begrudges the bouquet of butterflies blooming in his stomach. He has little time to do so, however, before the flutterings succumb to a full-body squeeze of dread as Jon begins to unfasten the outer gauze. Jon’s careful fingers slowly peel back the bandages, his movements gentling every time the fabric sticks or Martin gives the slightest wince.

For a moment, Martin expects daylight to penetrate the black when the dressings come away. His stomach drops with the whiplash-quick realisation of how stupid that is. The newly exposed skin feels terribly vulnerable in the sudden chill of the kitchen: raw, moist, tender. He pushes away the thought of Jane Prentiss’s spongy, yielding flesh.

“There you go,” Jon murmurs. Nicotine laces his breath. When had he snuck a smoke? Was he that nervous about what the bandages would reveal?

Martin takes a shaky breath. “H-how’s it look?” He hears a soft disturbance of the sterile water sitting ready on the table. The click of a bottle cap precedes a mild, familiar scent.

“Good. No signs of infection. Is it alright to touch?”

“Oh. Um, yeah.” Permission given, Jon places a steadying hand on Martin’s shoulder, and begins gently cleaning his eyelids with a warm cloth and baby soap. Martin clenches his hands in his joggers, and his teeth against the sensation.

“Sorry,” Jon murmurs.

“No, it’s- it’s not that bad. Mostly weird.” He takes a deep breath. “Um, by ‘how it looks,’ I sort of meant- like, generally, how does it… _look?_ ”

“Ah. Well.” Jon pauses for a long moment. His hand rises just to the side of Martin’s chin, and he uses a knuckle to tilt Martin’s head a few degrees back. The slick, gnarled texture of the burn feels strange in Martin’s week of scruff. “It’s… not great.”

“Oh, really, the holes in my face aren’t _great?_ I’m _shocked._ ” Martin’s voice snipes especially high on the last word.

The cloth stills. “Um—”

“Shit, sorry. That was- I’m sorry, Jon.” Martin sighs, waving his hands in a small erasing motion. “I just- it’s stupid, okay, with everything happening, I-I know it’s—” He clenches his jaw as Jon works the delicate cloth against the built up gunk around his tear duct. The pause lets him gather his words. “It, uh, took a lot of work for me to- like how I look, you know? For a lot of reasons. And I guess it shouldn’t matter as much since I can’t even see how I look anymore, but.” He shrugs, and feels his shoulders hunch inward when he releases them. “It- it’s stupid. Like I said.”

“It’s not stupid,” Jon says softly but with feeling. “This is… a lot to deal with. I think you get to be upset about losing part of your body.”

Martin’s throat is tight, but he still smiles. “Big words from you, Jonny ten-ribs.”

Jon scoffs in loud indignance. “Martin, that is incredibly rude.” His smile sounds dreadfully wide.

“I think I’ve earned the right,” Martin says. He flexes his fingers for a moment, then gathers a breath, and with it, courage. “Could- could you describe it to me?”

“Would that help?”

“I think so.”

Jon pauses, and Martin realises that the hand that has been steadying his face now simply cups his cheek. “It’s certainly swollen,” Jon says after a moment. “A bit sunken around the sockets. And the bruising is… bad. Like you’ve got two black eyes.”

Martin smiles wanly at that. “You should see the other guy?”

Jon chuckles. “I don’t think I want to.” He takes a moment to refresh the cloth, then starts on Martin’s other eye. The pressure is oddly comforting. Or perhaps it’s the hand cradling his face. “There isn’t much more to tell. I can update you, I suppose, when the stitches dissolve.”

“Yeah, I’d… like that. Thanks, Jon.”

“Of course, Martin.”

They go quiet after that. In breaths, in increments, Martin relaxes. The feeling of being held- handled?- and cleaned still has him squirming a bit, but it’s… it’s not bad. Not when it’s Jon.

By the time Jon eventually says, “Alright, that’s sorted,” Martin feels like he could fall asleep right there. Jon applies the ointment the doctor prescribed, then smooths a new cloth around Martin’s cheeks and temples, applying a bit of pressure to work off hints of crusted fluid and dead skin left from the dressings. He brushes something away with his thumb, then his fingertip lingers over the top of his Martin’s cheek. Martin’s breath stutters. Jon’s thumb drifts down his face. It swipes gently below his mouth, close enough to catch the pillow of his lower lip, and Martin is sure for a moment that he’s about to be kissed.

But then the hand falls away, which- of course. Of course. Jon has been freer with his touches every day, and Martin knows it’s the result of an obviously affection-starved person feeling safe for the first time in years, reaching desperately for reassurance that there is goodness and comfort in the world. It’s not a chance for him to get his foolish hopes up.

“There you go,” Jon says, voice rather thick. “You’re a, uh, model patient.”

“Um, thanks.” God, he sounds like someone is wringing his throat with both hands. “I’m- I think I’m going to go for a walk?”

“Oh!” Jon pulls away, his chair creaking with the sudden movement. “Sure, yes. I’ll get my coat, then?”

“No, um.” Martin stands. His hip checks the table. The bowl of water wobbles, but Jon gasps and catches it before it spills. Martin’s whole face goes hot. “Sorry. I just. Just need to think for a bit?” He grabs his cane and heads for the bedroom.

Jon follows in a bit of a scramble. “Are you alright?”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind.” Martin prides himself on how evenly the words come out, how earnest. “It’s- I just need to process.”

“Alright,” Jon says softly from the doorway. “I suppose- Did… was this, um, hard for you?”

The question is almost ridiculous, both in its unnecessity and in just how far it misses the mark; of course it was hard for him to confront his irreversible decision further, and that also has nothing to do with why he wants, proverbially, to step right off of one of those famous Scottish cliffsides right now. Could he walk to the coast from here?

“Yeah,” Martin sighs. “It’s all just… kind of a lot.”

Jon makes a soft noise. “Would it- would it help to discuss it?”

Martin almost laughs. Where were all these offers to talk things over back when Martin would have killed for even one candid conversation? A chill climbs his back: hospital air, just as cool as Jon’s limp hand in his. He can still taste the salt on the corners of his lips, recall the tear-crusted itch of his skin, the tender creak of his throat as he murmured all the things that this ridiculous man only let him say because his heart was not, at the time, beating.

“Maybe later,” Martin says finally. It isn’t difficult to keep his tone neutral. His throat settles easily into the familiar vibrations of resignation. “See you in a bit, Jon.”

He is glad that he can neither see or feel Jon’s stare as he goes. He gives no response to the murmured, “Be careful,” that dogs his heels as he opens the door.

The highlands unfold in whispers of sensation. Wet air kisses his vulnerable eyelids, threads through his hair. It feels too intimate, too much. He knows that he’s moving, but he doesn’t think about where he’s going, not really. He knows, distantly, that he was always headed here, anyway.

He fails to notice that, despite his forgotten coat, he does not mind the evening’s oncoming cold. Without question, he accepts the layers of muted air that fold around him, heavy, until even the crunch of his own footsteps is distant. He barely feels the crisp moisture of fog breaking over his legs.

The voice, when he hears it, is faint. Muffled. He assumes it’s not for him. It wouldn’t be, would it? He’s nobody; he has no one. He walks on.

And yet the voice persists. It continues, the same noise parroted again and again, different tones but the same two syllables. It grates at him. Irritates him. He doesn’t want this. He wants to be alo—

“Martin!” The voice cuts right through Martin’s skull, serrated with despair.

Instinct calls back: “Jon?”

“Martin?! Martin, where are you?!”

Martin stops. He isn’t anywhere. “I’m here,” he says. Oh, that’s right. Here.

“W- where?”

He skids his cane limply along the ground. It tells him nothing. “I don’t know.”

Footsteps kick up pebbles somewhere close. “A-a-a-are you on the road?”

“I think so.”

“Okay! Okay, don’t move.”

Easy enough. Martin stays where he is and listens to the clumsy shuffle of shoes in gravel. Jon starts to say, “I can’t—”

Then his hands slap gracelessly into Martin’s side. Martin staggers a bit, then goes stiff as Jon’s hands flutter wildly up his shoulder, to his neck, his face.

“Oh, god,” Jon says, shaky and hushed. “Martin, I-I can’t see you at all. You’re- you- Don’t go. You need to stay here. Stay.”

“I don’t… I don’t know if I can.”

“You can! You can, a-alright?” Jon’s hands drop, landing small and desperate against Martin’s stomach before finding his thick forearm. The hands pull him, and Martin cannot tell if Jon is stronger than he thought, or if he, himself, is weak.

“Come home.” A plea. “Come back to me.”

“I just wanted a moment,” Martin whispers. Just a moment to think. A moment by himself.

Jon makes a choked, pained sort of sound. “You’ve been gone for hours, Martin. I thought- I thought—” He thought. Jon always thinks he knows everything, doesn’t he?

“Leave me here,” says Martin. “Please.”

Nails tighten into Martin’s arm. Jon’s voice rumbles, palpable through Martin’s radius and ulna. “No. I won’t.” Then he begins to pull.

And Martin follows, because how could he ever not?

He can’t tell how long they walk, isn’t sure where they are at all. He clutches his cane close to his chest and allows Jon to lead him home. Soon they near the cottage: a change in the paving stone, the heightening tone of wind cutting across the hilltop, a thick whiff of smoke, the tittering of what Jon told him two days ago are starlings, bickering amongst themselves as the imminent winter brings an urgency to their instincts.

“Okay,” Jon says, softly, tremulously, “we’re home.”

There is a hole in Martin’s chest, where he thinks he should feel something about those words.

“H-how do you feel?” Jon asks once they’re inside, patting his hands over Martin’s arms, his shoulders, his chest. Checking to see if he’s still there.

“I can’t feel.” Vaguely, he thinks he should be frightened. He is only tired.

“Okay. Shit, okay, can- can you sit on the floor for me?” Jon leads him across the room and guides him to settle onto the hardwood, back against the couch. There’s a rustle, and Jon’s knee knocks his shoulder as he climbs around him. The couch dips behind him, and the heat of Jon’s body presses flush against the back of his head.

“I, uh, I’m going to- it might be uncomfortable, alright? But I-I- I need- just please, don’t go. Don’t go.”

Then Jon curls around him. He hooks his legs over Martin’s shoulders and crosses them over his front, socked heels dug into the yielding dips of his sides. He hunches over Martin’s head and folds his arms over Martin’s chest, fists clenched in his jumper. Then, with his whole body, Jon crushes into Martin.

Martin knows that all of this is happening. He supposes that must mean that he can feel it, but it registers more as information than sensation. He’s… indifferent. Pitying, at most. Poor Jon, clinging like his life depends on it, like Martin isn’t already gone.

“No!” Jon gasps in his ear, pushed through teeth. He lays on pressure, compresses until Martin can feel him tremble with exertion. “Come back. Come back to me. Martin, please. Please.”

It’s the crack in his voice—a tear in the baritone, a glimpse of a tender terror—that brings the weight of his body slamming into Martin: nine stone at most, but heavier than that, really, so heavy that Martin feels he’s being forced through the floor.

“Ohthankgod,” Jon gasps, and his clutching hands start to massage fiercely into Martin’s collarbones. “There you are, there you are. I-I-I-I can see you. I see you, Martin, you’re here. You’re here. You’re coming back, a-alright? I-I’ve got you.” He keeps talking, babbling deep and breathless, as Martin remembers his hands. He flexes them, lying limp against the floor, and then raises them slowly, slowly, to grip Jon’s knees where they’re bent over his shoulders. He breathes in, and finds that it shudders in his throat. A few strands of Jon’s hair catch in his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to go.” His voice sounds so thin, so small. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jon whispers, and the shiver in his tone pushes out through his limbs. “Just- stay a bit, arlight?” He laughs in that desperate, sad way of his. “I, uh, you’re- This house is too big without you.”

“It’s a small house,” Martin murmurs.

“It is.” Jon’s face presses into Martin’s hair, his heavy breaths rolling through the sweat-damp waves. His mouth lingers against Marin’s crown, and if he had a better handle on his nerve endings, Martin might have wondered if it was a kiss. “It is.”

* * *

The next day, Martin decides to get a therapist.

Back in hospital, when it became apparent that he had no intention of divulging any information about his injury, the psychologist gave him a list of licensed professionals in the area and encouraged him to pursue counseling. The list sits, unread, with the piles of paperwork and pamphlets they brought home. A bit of Forsaken still shivers through Martin’s extremities when he asks Jon to dig out the list and read the options to him.

After going over the choices quite thoroughly, Martin feels the best about one Dr. Kenneth Turner, whose areas of focus include PTSD and coping with disability. It doesn’t hurt, either, that his information concludes with a comforting little aside about being accepting of all LGBTQIA+ clients.

“I suppose we’ll need to contact him from the village,” Jon sighs.

Martin drums his nails on the table. “Bit inconvenient, that. Although,” he stops drumming and sits up straighter, “this would be a perfect opportunity for you to see a doctor, like we agreed on.”

Jon actually groans. “Martin—”

“Like we agreed on,” Martin repeats. He smiles, saccharine, with the force of a steamroller.

Grumbling, Jon begins to crinkle the paper in his hands. Martin lays his hand flat on the table and raises a brow; after a moment, Jon stops crinkling and gives the paper over. While Martin smooths it out, Jon mutters, “Is there even a practice in town?”

“Why, yes, Jon, there actually is! I saw it before, and I’ll be happy to take you there.”

The table vibrates lightly, accompanied by the sock-dulled thumping of Jon shaking his leg. “Fine,” he sighs after a moment.

Martin’s smile softens. “Thank you, Jon. It really does mean a lot to me.”

Jon’s breath catches. Then he says, “I- I should read a statement if we’re going into town,” and gets up. He leaves Martin sitting there at the table, feeling quite a lot of feelings.

Once the edge is successfully taken off of Jon’s hunger, Martin uses the bedroom for his much more mundane going-out routine. He tugs on a jumper over his soft henley, then rummages through the loose earrings in his toiletry bag until he finds the pair of studs shaped like cacti. The enamel is pleasingly smooth beneath his fingers. He can’t help but smile as he puts them in.

Before he leaves, he stops at his bedside. Gingerly, he reaches toward the little table there, and flutters his fingers over his glasses, sitting folded but not forgotten. The round frames are cool to the touch, left undisturbed for several days in the bedroom’s chill. He picks them up.

For a moment, Martin feels stupid. He feels like the setup to a bad joke, a blind man holding a pair of owlish prescription glasses. He feels like he should leave them—but no, that thought fills him with apprehension. He’s worn glasses since he was seven. They make him feel safe. He likes how they define the regions of his face, how the golden frames make his freckles pop.

With a small, defiant smile, Martin slips on his specs.

“Ah, classic Martin,” Jon says when he steps back into the room.

Martin ducks his head and smirks. “I have a brand to maintain.” He clears his throat. “Does it- is it okay?”

“Mm. Bruising’s improving.” Jon draws closer. “You look- you look like yourself.”

Warmth suffuses, thick and bright, through Martin’s chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The sentiment settles, and sprawls, and fills the space between their feet. Martin could bask in it for hours.

He gets a few seconds before Jon says, “Ah- well. If you’re ready?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, a little breathless. “Yeah, let’s go.”

In the car, they decide that Jon should visit the doctor’s office first thing. Martin offers to accompany him, but Jon hems and haws and eventually admits that he’d rather go alone. Martin doesn’t make a big deal of it, instead musing on how it would be nice to visit that little crafts store again.

This is fine, in theory. In practice, it results in Jon hovering outside the shopfront and asking four separate times if Martin will be alright alone. Martin counts, specifically so that when Jon has finally turned to go but stops a few steps away to ask another time, he can say,

“That is literally the fifth time you’ve asked. And for the fifth time: I’ll be fine. I would not lie to you five times.”

“But you would lie to me?”

“Goodbye, Jon.” Martin waves him off.

Once Jon’s footsteps melt into the surrounding noise, Martin breathes deeply and shakes out his arms. This is good. He’ll be fine. He turns to enter the store—

and slams his toe into an unexpected stair.

“Fuck!”

Amazing start. He gropes behind him for the wall that should be there, and slumps into it once he’s sure there are no more obstacles to humiliate him. He wore his heavy boots today for the exact reason that they would protect his feet, so the injury itself isn’t too bad, but his pride strings like hell.

Beside him, a chipper bell jingles as the door to the shop opens.

“Ye alright, laddie?” It’s the woman who rang up the mug Martin bought the other day. Concern crinkles her voice.

Acutely aware of just how hot his face has gone, Martin pushes off the wall and does his best to right himself, straightening his spine and then the hem of his jumper. “I’m fine! Sorry, didn’t mean to, um, make a scene.”

“Aw,” the woman clucks, “ye dinnae do nothing o the sort. Ye comin’ in?”

“Yes, yeah. Thanks.”

“Watch yer step.”

While he tries to decide if that was genuine advice or a display of poor taste in what sorts of jokes are appropriate with strangers, Martin enters the shop. Remembering that the shelves are crowded with handmade wares and curios, he tucks his cane close to his side and navigates with hesitant brushes of his fingers.

“Ye look lik’ ye had quite a week.”

The woman’s voice makes Martin jump. He turns toward the other side of the room, where she shuffles around energetically. “What?”

“Ah chust coudnae help bit notice, ye dinnae look sae roughed up whin ye and yer laddie came in afore.”

Oh. The thought that this woman might remember him hasn’t even occurred to him, but of course she would. Martin has never been hard to notice, nevermind Jon, who’s covered in scars, and absurdly, aggressively English in a way that’s bound to stand out to a bunch of secluded Scots. This surely won’t be the only person to notice what he and Jon are doing to their eyes.

“Um,” Martin says, conspicuously late, “yeah, it’s… kind of a long story? I, uh—”

“No worries, hen, ye dinnae have tae share. Ah wilnae pry.” She leaves it for a moment. Then, suddenly much closer (christ, she should have a bell), she says, “Ah dinnae expect tae see ye again. Are ye staying long?”

“Oh! Um, yeah, we’ll be around.” He fiddles with a little figurine on a nearby shelf. A goat, maybe? Perhaps a poorly sculpted cow. God, he’s really gotten bad at small talk. “I’m Martin,” he says finally, unsure what else to add.

“Martin! It fits ye, lad. Ah ken tell that aboot names. A’m Alba Douglas.” She grabs his hand and shakes it quite hard, given that her fingers feel like they’d snap if he gave any pressure back. “Hae ye moved tae town, then?”

“Sort of? We’re staying in a little cabin up the hill.”

“Aye, that old place? Ah did aye think ‘twas charming. Ye honeymooning, then?”

Martin chokes. Just a little. “Um- uh, no? Just sort of a-uh, an unexpected move?”

Ms. Douglas hums a nearly disappointed sound. “Sorry, hen; there Ah go prying again! It’s chust that ye two remind me o when maself an’ mah guidman—mah husband, ye ken—were chust married. Ah kin tell a young couple in love when Ah see them. Ye’ll git nae trouble from anyone here, by the wey—least nae fur being men goin’ together. Fur bein’ sassenech, Ah cannae make any promises!”

While she chortles at her own joke, Martin just barely kerbs the manic note from his polite laugh. He thinks he may actually like this woman very much, and can’t quite figure out whether it’s genuine, or because she seems to think he and Jon are— _fuck_ —the picture of young love. In his defense, he’s used to a slim picking of friends.

Ms. Douglas coughs a bit, apparently exhausted of her laughter. “Sae, Martin,” she says, “whit are ye buying today?”

“Well, Ms. Douglas—”

“Alba, please.”

“Alba.” Martin smiles, and begins to remember why he once enjoyed meeting new people. “I was wondering if I could feel your yarns.”

There is a lot of yarn in Alba Douglas’s store. She hands Martin several skeins, chatting with familiarity about the advantages of each variety and referring by first name to the people who spun them. When Martin explains that he intends to use the yarns as a textured labelling system for home organisation, Alba immediately forbids him from buying any right now, saying that she can get him the exact same stuff on the cheap since he doesn’t need it dyed. Warmed by her help, Martin decides to purchase a skein of an especially soft chunky yarn, just to give her a bit of immediate business for her trouble.

“An if ye hae any thoughts aboot something else ye might need, ye kin radio any time while business hours, hen. Nothin’ Ah love more than gabbing aboot the fine things Ah sell here.”

Martin’s brow lifts. “Oh, you have a radio? That’s—” not charming, don’t say charming, “cool.”

Alba snorts quite impressively. “Of course Ah hae a radio. Dinnae ye?”

“Oh, um, no?”

“Hold on. Martin. Laddie. Are ye sayin ye hae lived in the bum-fuck middle o nowhere fur ower a week, an’ ye hae nae had a radio? Whit if ye had an emergency?”

Yes. _Whit if_. “Um,” says Martin.

“Aye, hen,” she says with an odd mix of pity, amusement, and resignation, like she thinks he is very sweet but also very stupid (which is likely exactly what she thinks), “is that whit happened tae ye?”

Again, “Um.” Martin adjusts his glasses, then realises that’s a dead tell and drops his hand.

“No, no, Ah said Ah wid nae pry!” Alba says. The till drawer chings shut, and the whole counter shakes with it. “A’m such a nosy wifie. All these years an Ah still need tae learn mah patience. Ye will tell me in good time, once we hae a blossoming friendship. Isnae that right, Martin?”

Martin laughs. “Well, um—”

“A’m right aboot these things,” Alba says, and pats his arm. Her hand lingers for a moment, then she gives Martin’s bicep a sharp slap. He yelps. “Sorry, hen,” she says, which Martin is beginning to understand means that she knows she should be sorry, but is actually not. “Ah chust had a thought. Ye'r lanky, aye? Could Ah trouble ye tae help with a bit o' shelving? A've git a stepladder, but A'm hauf convinced ‘tis plotting tae murder me.”

Martin laughs, caught just off-guard enough to find the request charming. “Uh, sure? Yeah! I’m just not supposed to lift anything over five kilos, because of...” He gestures to his face. “But other than that, I’m happy to help.”

Alba chuckles. It’s a vibrant sound, crackling and bright. “Aye, Ah think we're aff tae be stoatin friends indeed, Martin.”

This is how Martin comes to be arranging handmade plush sheep on a high shelf when Jon returns to the shop. No sooner does the bell above the door chime than Jon is laughing, the ring of it growing richer with every step he advances.

“Bit of part-time work, I take it?”

Martin beams. He resists the impulse to hide his face in the sheep he’s holding. “Mm, yeah, figured I should pick something up. Unemployment’s just been so uneventful.”

Jon snorts.

“How’d it go?” Martin asks, dropping the plush in his hand back into the box.

“It went. Appointment’s scheduled.” Jon’s tone is dour; his shoe scuffs against the floor.

Martin crosses his arms, a bit exasperated, a bit amused. “Surely it wasn’t bad as all that.”

“No, it- it was fine.” Jon sighs. “Nice little place. Everyone seems friendly enough. Someone’s mucus-covered child stared at me the whole time I was waiting.”

“Oh, no, Jonathan Sims, _stared at?_ How ever did you make it out alive?”

“Shut up,” Jon mutters, tone lilted by a smile. His knuckles skim Martin’s arm lightly, an entirely pulled punch.

Martin lays his hand a bit too tenderly on the stretch of jumper that Jon touched. “Okay, let me finish this and we’ll get going.”

Jon chuckles, but leaves Martin to his sheep. Jon’s trainers creak against the floorboards, the occasional rustle of curios following him as he makes his way around the shop.

“Oh,” he says after a moment.

“Hm?”

“Nail lacquers.” Glass clinks softly, and Jon makes a thoughtful sound. “They’re nice.”

Martin thinks of Jon’s hands, the fade of rich brown into pale palm, the bulge of his knuckles and the angles of his fingers, and how beautiful they would look emblazoned with pops of colour. “Have you ever thought about painting yours?”

Jon hums. “Oh, I used to all the time. Paint them, I mean.”

An innocent sheep nearly pays for Martin’s surprise. He catches it before it tumbles and pushes it back between its fellows. “R-really?”

“Absolutely. I had a, uh, a bit of an alt phase in uni. Black nails, eyeliner, jeans that were more hole than fabric. Wallet chain.”

Martin is, of course, privy to the alt phase. But the wallet chain? “ _No_.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Jon says gravely. “After I grew out of the rest, I kept painting my nails. I... liked it. Didn’t stop until I started seeking positions in academia and got a few comments about it being unprofessional, which- well.” He makes a breathy sound, maybe a laugh, maybe a sigh. “Anyway. I was always a bit, um, jealous? That you painted yours.”

“Seriously?”

“Mm. Looked like it was something that made you happy.”

Martin’s chest clutches. “...Yeah. It did.”

“I, um… I noticed that you’ve stopped. Was that- was that something you meant to do, or—?”

“No,” Martin murmurs. He stands before the shelf, hand still raised above his head, resting in plush fluff. Real fleece, Alba said. “No, it just sort of… fell away.”

There’s a melodic click of glass on glass, Jon disturbing the various lacquers. After a moment, he makes a sound of approval, and returns to Martin’s side. Gently, he takes Martin’s wrist, then presses a cool, smooth bottle into his palm.

“You should start again,” he says softly.

Martin chokes right the hell up. “U-um. Thanks, Jon. I will.” He tries to breathe in without hitching, and almost does. “Wh-what’s this colour called?”

“Ah. Let’s see.” Jon turns the bottle over in Martin’s hand without taking it. He makes a disapproving noise. “Oh, good lord.”

Martin laughs, breathy, at Jon’s sour tone. “Now you have to tell me.”

“It’s called Beach Sex Blue,” Jon says in a rush, and heightens his volume when Martin starts to laugh in earnest, “which I did not notice when I chose it! It’s just- I thought it was a nice blue! It’s- bright!”

Martin snickers, and his tears spill over. He surreptitiously knuckles them away under the pretense of fixing his glasses. “I’m sure it’s beautiful, Jon,” he chuckles. “I cannot wait to paint my nails Beach Sex Blue.”

“We’re not _buying_ —”

“We are, actually. It called to you, Jon! Now I’ll have to paint yours, as well!”

“Do I get an opportunity to refuse this?”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Jon sighs a high note. “Fine,” he says. His smile is loud.

And standing here bathed in the scent of linens and wood, close enough to feel the warmth of Jon’s body, Martin wants to say _I love you_.

“We should head out,” he says instead.

As Alba rings them up, Martin takes a moment to properly introduce her to Jon. She only makes one presumptive remark about them being a couple, and spends the remainder of the interaction berating Jon for not having a radio at the cabin. It is unclear why she thinks this is Jon’s responsibility specifically, but Martin listens to it unfold with a hand over his grinning mouth, and assures her that they’ll get one before they leave town.

At Alba’s instruction, they purchase a used amateur radio from a gruff middle aged man running a shop stocked with outdoor and survival equipment. He supplies them with a list of local frequencies, and with a rasp of pen on paper, underlines the one for emergencies. When Martin asks how they’re supposed to operate the radio, the man sighs at an absurd volume, then stands with a creak of chair and floorboard to open a drawer somewhere. He rifles through it, closes it, opens another, swears, then opens a filing cabinet with a squeal of aged metal. Martin is just about to withdraw his question and say they’ll just look it up later when the man makes a triumphant sound.

A mess of crinkling paper changes hands. Jon mutters, “Oh, brilliant,” and nudges Martin’s arm with the corner of what feels like a doorstop paperback. Martin takes it with his free hand. The manual is… thick. Thick, and possibly rescued from drowning at some point, given the glut of stiff, warped pages pushing both covers outward.

Martin leans toward Jon and angles his head away from the shop owner. “Light evening reading,” he suggests quietly. Jon’s breath catches, a bitten-down laugh.

They leave the shop laden down with their purchase, Jon lugging the heavy radio and Martin wrangling the antenna. When Jon starts to audibly strain under the weight, Martin tries to suggest they switch, but Jon scoffs at him.

“This is well over five kilos. I won’t have you bursting a blood vessel in the street because of my,” he grunts and hefts the radio higher, “weak arms.”

 _I like your arms_ , Martin almost says, then feels his face flush awfully. He mumbles something acquiescent and hopes he hasn’t gone too red. They manage, at least, to make it back to the car before Martin has any other dangerously gay thoughts.

On their way out of town, they stop at the payphone.

Inside the booth, Martin can barely hear the call tone over the rush of his pulse in his ears. He almost can’t believe that this is so difficult for him after what he’s been through, but he supposes that none of his experiences surrounding The Magnus Institute have in any way prepared him for making healthy choices. (And he has to remind himself that, yes, this is a healthy choice, no matter how indulgent it feels, no matter how many times he wonders if it’s even necessary.)

Ultimately, it takes less than five minutes. Martin hangs up, his first therapy session scheduled. He smiles as he returns to lean against the car next to Jon.

“Look at us,” he says, sighing into the nipping wind. “Two appointments between us.”

Jon tsks. “Practically functional people.” He pushes off the car with a slight groan. “I’m going to call Basira, I think. Check up on things.”

“Sure.”

The call is brief, hardly enough time for Martin to grow truly cold and start to consider waiting inside the car. He startles when the phone box door clatters open. Jon stumbles out, footsteps uneven.

Martin springs off the car. “Jon?”

Jon stops a few feet shy of Martin, his breaths erratic. “Melanie Quit.”

“O-oh! Shit, okay. That’s good, right? Unless—” his breath catches, “is she alright?”

“She’s fine,” Jon says, almost offhandedly.

Martin clutches at his chest and exhales through his teeth. “Jesus, okay. What’s wrong, then?”

“She- she did it three days ago.”

“Okay? Is there something significant about that, or—?”

“I haven’t- I- I haven’t been dreaming of her, Martin.”

Martin’s hand, halfway to reaching for Jon‘s, tenses. “Wait, what?”

“I uh- I, uh, I haven’t been seeing her in my dreams since she- since she Quit.”

Dread floods Martin’s throat. It tastes a lot like bile. “But- Jon, if you’re not seeing Melanie, and you _are_ seeing me, why- what does that mean?”

“I don’t know!” Jon’s many layers rustle as he makes some overwrought gesture. He starts to pace. “I don’t know, Martin! I-I-I don’t understand. I don’t _understand_ —”

“Okay- hey.” Martin reaches for Jon and manages to get one of his shoulders, bringing him to a stop. “Jon. Look, I’m- I’m freaked out, too, okay? But just…” He draws a shaking breath. “Look, let’s get in the car, okay? I don’t want to have this conversation on the street.”

Under Martin’s hand, Jon trembles. “Oh. Oh, right. Of-of- of course.”

Martin guides Jon to the driver’s seat, then rounds the bonnet and collapses into the passenger’s. When he shuts the door, the quiet of the cab looms, oppressive.

“Okay,” Martin sighs, sliding his glasses up to knead at the tender skin around his eyelids. “Okay. We don’t know why this is happening. Is there anything we do know?”

A drum of nail on dashboard. Jon makes a sound in the back of his throat, mostly a growl, maybe a whine. “I… I, uh, I do have a thought.”

Martin bites down the impulse to say how much he doesn’t like the sound of that. “...And what thought is that?”

Jon fidgets for a moment. “I, uh... I’m not sure, but I’m beginning to wonder if it’s just… me.”

Martin frowns. “What?”

“I-I think that- it’s— Alright. When you dream, your visual cortex lights up, right? Your mind sees things, in a way. And I think- I think, with the proximity, maybe I can… sense it? And I just- I want to see. I have to know. So I’m just… drifting into your dreams.”

“Okay, but that’s, like, beholding’s whole thing? How can you be sure it’s not the eye?”

Nails tapping. No reply.

Martin’s stomach clenches. “Jon.”

“It isn’t there.”

“What?”

“In my dreams- my normal dreams- inasmuch as my dreams are normal, I-I sup—”

“ _Jon_.”

“ _Yes_. Alright. Normally, in my dreams, the Eye- it blots out the sky. I can feel it, always, even when there’s shelter, even under the earth, even deep into the Buried. But in your dreams… I don’t think it’s there. No, I- I _know_ it’s not. It’s just… you.”

“You just now noticed that the giant eye wasn’t there?!”

Jon groans softly. “No, it was… the first thing I noticed. I just. I-I didn’t want to look at what it meant.”

“You didn’t want to look—” Martin turns to face Jon fully, gripping the dashboard with one hand, the middle console with the other. He knocks his knee on his cane and swallows down a curse. “Jon. Jon! You _need_ to tell me these things! And- I’m sorry, maybe there’s something I’m not getting, but what part of ‘the evil all-knowing god is _not_ invading Martin’s dreams’ seemed bad to you?”

“Because it’s _me_ , Martin!” Jon roars. Martin flinches back. Jon draws a sharp breath. Softer, almost timid, he says, “Because I-I- I’m doing it. I- even subconsciously, _I’m_ invading your mind, your privacy, your memories, a-and I-” he drops to a murmur. “What does that make me?”

Martin’s heart twists. “I don’t know, Jon. I really don’t. But it doesn’t make you- _evil_ , or whatever you’re thinking, alright?”

“It seems like the definition of—”

“It’s not!” Martin realises that he’s shouted and presses a fist to his mouth. “Sorry, sorry,” he rasps. “Look, Jon, I can’t tell you how to feel about this, okay? But I- I know you. I know you wouldn’t do something like this out of- out of malice. I’m not angry. I just…” He huffs heavily through his nose, and falls back into his seat, slumping until his knees hit the glove box. “You can talk to me. After everything, I need you to know that, okay? I’m here for you. I’m right here, no matter what.”

With a sentiment well-worn and unspoken, he lays his hand palm-up between them. A breath passes, then two. Finally, scar-spattered skin slides against his, fingers hooking into his lonely spaces. Jon sighs, and it shudders down his arm.

“Thank you, Martin.”

Desperately, Martin wants to hold him. He settles for clutching his hand tight. “Of course, Jon.”

A few moments pass, marked by Jon’s shaky breathing. Eventually, he murmurs, “I’m sorry, Martin.”

 _It’s okay_ , Martin wants to say, but he doesn’t know if it is. He gives Jon’s hand a feeble squeeze.

On the drive back, they don’t speak. They don’t let each other go, either.

* * *

That night, the dream begins the same.

Martin is alone in his old flat. The _knock, knock, knock_ permeates the room. It comes from inside his wardrobe this time. He rises, with the broken logic of a dreamer, to open the door.

Jane Prentiss hangs between his shirts, threaded through with a gnarled metal hanger, the sinew of her shoulders snapping beneath her sagging weight. Worms tumble out of her ragged red dress and squirm up between her eyeballs and lids.

Martin runs. He falls, because he always falls in these dreams. He wrenches his head back to look for the worms—

And there’s Jon.

He stands between Martin and Prentiss, worms shrivelling beneath his many-pronged glare. A swath of his eyes wheel toward Martin, but he steps no closer.

They stare at each other. Then, slowly, slowly, with a great and trembling effort, a single eye slides shut. Jon has no mouth, but Martin can feel his smile.

Martin doesn’t remember the end of the dream. He sleeps until sunrise.

* * *

“To be quite honest, Martin, I’m really rather relieved.”

Sweat dampened the tops of Martin’s thighs. His hands rested palms-down on his lap, where he’d put them when it had become apparent that he’d need to admit to a fireable offense to avoid—well, something bad. Something that, in the moment he’d made the decision, he’d judged to be worse than revealing his most fraught secret.

But it was out, now. It was out in the open, and Jon had _smiled_ , and now he sagged over his desk, head hung, body held by rigid arms that shook a bit, whether with leftover adrenaline or sheer exhaustion, Martin couldn’t say.

“Am I, um. Dismissed?”

Jon looked up, and Martin’s breath caught, because Jon had never looked at him like that. Like... like he might not want him to go.

“Yes, yes.” Jon straightened up and waved Martin off with one hand, still a bit breathless. “I, uh- yes.”

“Oh… kay.” Finally peeling up his sweaty palms, Martin stood from the cracked leather chair. He desperately wanted to go collapse at his desk. Actually, he wanted to go home and scream into a pillow until he dropped into oxygen-deprived sleep.

Instead, he said, “...Did you think I was writing my _mum_ about how I _murdered_ someone?”

Jon stiffened. “Wh- no! Obviously it was a-a - a code name, or…” He gestured vaguely with the letter, which had become spectacularly crumpled over the course of the confrontation.

“You thought a murderer had the code name ‘mum’?”

“I-I don’t know! That’s why I asked!” Jon crossed his arms. “If you’re quite finished...”

Really, Martin should have folded. He should have agreed that, yes, he was quite finished, and taken his leave. But he’d seen relief smooth Jon’s frown lines. He’d seen him smile. And what little willpower he had was, at that moment, being smothered underfoot by a slow-dance of fondness and concern.

“I’m just trying to understand,” Martin said gently. Jon’s brow furrowed further, but he leaned slightly forward all the same. _I believe you_ , he’d said. Martin drew a deep breath. “Would you… could you talk me through what you’re thinking? Maybe if you had someone to bounce all of this off of—”

“No.” A slight strain ran through the syllable. His eyebrows tweaked up, just a bit. Tiny slips in his facade, and yet Jon looked more vulnerable than Martin had seen him since the worms. Maybe ever.

Martin drew a step nearer to the desk. “I know… it must be rough, not knowing what happened in the place where you work, to the person who had your job. I mean, after seeing Gertrude’s body,” he managed for once to say these words without choking on them, “I don’t feel great about the- implications? -of it all? But you’re… You should talk to someone, Jon.”

Jon scoffed fiercely. “You should know why I can’t do that, Martin.”

 _Yes, because of the unchecked paranoia,_ Martin wanted to shout. He closed his eyes instead, taking a deep breath.

“I meant- it just seems like the kind of thing that maybe a therapist could help with?”

The disdain skewing Jon’s features evolved fully into a scowl. “You’re suggesting I run my supernatural murder theories by a psychologist.”

“No,” Martin said firmly, doing his best to swallow his annoyance. “I’m suggesting that you talk to a psychologist about-” _your nosedive into paranoid mania_ “-about everything going on in your head. I really, really think it would help. I mean, we recommend counselors to the statement-givers all the time. It’s a natural next step after any kind of trauma. Or, it- it should be, I suppose.”

“Should it,” Jon said archly.

“I- yeah. It should.”

“So you see one, then?” Jon’s tone was odd, somewhere between antagonism and genuine curiosity.

Martin’s dry throat bobbed in a futile attempt to swallow. “Well, er, no, but—”

“ _Then why_ ,” Jon bit out, “ _don’t you go, if it’s so helpful?_ ”

“Because I’ve made it through a hell of a lot on my own, and even though sometimes I really think I need help from _someone_ if I’m going to make it, it’s started to feel like asking for help after all this time would be admitting that I’m just not enough anymore, or that I’ve lost something along the way, or that maybe Mum is right and I’m just a waste of all the space I take up!”

Jon’s eyes snapped wide. Martin slapped both hands over his mouth.

“Wait,” he gasped.

“I, uh- I… Jesus, Martin.” Jon slid his glasses up through his overgrown fringe, sending sheafs of grey and black tumbling at his temples, then pinched at the bridge of his nose. “That’s, um…”

“I’m sorry,” Martin whimpered through his fingers, through his constricting throat, through a head going hazy with humiliated heat. “I-I didn’t mean to- I don’t know why I said that, I—”

“It’s alright,” Jon sighed, fingers now pressing against his closed eyelids. “I shouldn’t have... it’s fine.”

Martin’s hands crept up beneath his glasses to cover his eyes. His face was hot to the touch. He returned to his fantasy of screaming into the pillow, and wondered how hard it would be to suffocate himself that way. He could probably figure it out.

“Martin.”

Fuck. Reluctantly, Martin lowered his hands. The look Jon gave him could almost have been called sympathetic, if not for the pained pinch of one eye.

“I-I’m sure this, ah- conversation- has been quite stressful for you. If you would like to take the rest of the day off, get a jump-start on the weekend, that would be... understandable.”

“Um,” said Martin, because Jon had never once offered to let him leave early, let alone on a Friday. “Really?”

Jon coughed lightly. “Yes.”

“Uh, yeah, I’ll, um. Do that, then?” Martin shook out his hands, sucking a sharp breath to reorient himself. Unsure what else to say, he turned to go.

“Ah, one more thing, Martin?”

Martin stopped and pitched his head toward the ceiling. He had long since pruned himself from his Catholic roots, but if this encounter went on any longer, he was fully ready to break out the entire Litany of Mary.

Finally, Martin made himself turn. “Yes, Jon?”

For once, he couldn't read Jon’s expression. Jon righted his glasses, then took a breath so deep that it straightened his posture a bit. “Given what you’ve told me about your work history,” he said, effectively stopping Martin’s heart, “am I to understand that you were only seventeen when you started here?”

“Oh. Oh! Um, I did have to look for a few years before I got the interview here. Did a few sort of stop-gap jobs in the meantime, um, off-the-books type stuff, nothing sustainable, but—” Jon’s face began to harden, reminding Martin that he should probably answer the question he was actually asked, “—um, all that to say, I was nineteen.”

Jon’s brows lifted, face smoothing again. “I see. That’s still… quite young.” Something odd flitted across his expression. He watched Martin, eyes dreadfully intent, stoking the heat still crowding Martin’s brain. It was all he could do not to curl in on himself.

Jon’s lips barely moved when he spoke again, softly, as if he perhaps didn’t mean to say it out loud. “Yes, that… that makes sense.”

Finally, Jon released him, dropping his eyes to his desk. Martin’s shoulders slumped like they’d been pinned. A shudder pushed through him.

“Was that… all?”

“Uh- yes. Thank you, Martin.” Jon flapped a dismissive hand. His lips parted, and a breath hitched between them. For a moment, the room waited. Then he dropped into his chair and began to shuffle through the papers on his desk, words unsaid. Martin, who had foolishly shifted to the edge of his proverbial seat, leaned back and sighed.

His welcome was well and truly overstayed at this point, but… “Will you think about it?” he asked, soft. “Therapy?”

Jon did not look up, but his hands stilled over the pile of statements before him. From this angle, Martin couldn’t parse his expression.

“No,” Jon said, “I won’t.”

At least he was being honest.

“Alright,” Martin murmured, finally making it to the doorway. He ran the back of a knuckle down the jamb. “See you Monday, then.”

“Mm.”

Martin closed the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, hand still on the knob, and tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.

When he started to pack up his satchel, Tim turned with interest.

“Please tell me you’re living out my fantasy of quitting midday specifically to spite him.”

“Not quite,” Martin sighed, tapping a handful of papers into order against his desk. “He said I could head out early.”

A few months ago, this would have sent Tim directly into playful ribbing. Today, he just frowned. “Why?”

“So I can suffocate myself with a pillow.”

Across the room, Sasha laughed into her palm. Tim huffed a chuckle, and almost smiled. “Ah, my other fantasy. Godspeed, mate.”

“Yeah, thanks, Tim.”

At home, Martin collapsed onto his unmade bed without taking his shoes off. He clutched his pillow to his chest, and closed his eyes, and tried to unwind without unravelling. He tried not to imagine that the shape in his arms was a weight, or that the weight was a person, or that the person was one he’d seen smile today for the first time in ages.

A wet laugh choked out of him. He buried his face in the pillow. “Shit,” he mumbled into what he was definitely not wishing was a slim, cardigan-draped shoulder, “maybe I do need therapy.”

* * *

Dr. Turner has an unobtrusive presence and a calm voice. Martin warms to him the moment they meet, when they share a firm handshake in the waiting room of his shared practice. Jon seems a bit less enthusiastic, but he still volunteers his name and reaches past Martin to offer his own hand. While he’s leaned close, his other hand settles between Martin’s shoulder blades for half a breath before pulling back.

“Have a good appointment,” Jon says with unnecessary gravity.

Martin smiles and pats his shoulder. “I’m sure I will, Jon.”

Dr. Turner directs Martin into the office proper. Slick _zips_ of fabric accompany his walk: slacks, maybe a jacket. He smells subtly of an inoffensive cologne, laced with a hint of something more natural. Perhaps lavender. Martin taps his way into the room that the doctor indicates, and- yes, it’s definitely lavender. The scent permeates the room, likely the result of the diffuser hissing nearby.

“Did Jon drive you here?” Dr. Turner asks conversationally after telling Martin to make himself comfortable.

“Yeah,” Martin says, maybe sounding a little too dreamy about that, as he locates the sofa and settles into its corner.

“That’s very kind. What’s your relationship to him?”

“Oh, he’s my—” boyfriend, he wants to say. Almost says. Jesus. “He’s my, uh, my- Jon?” Ah. That is in no way better. He feels his face burning.

Dr. Turner has a note of knowing in his voice. “It sounds like he’s important to you.”

Martin swallows thickly. “He is.”

“I’d love to hear more about him later. But right now, let’s just talk some basics, get to know each other, okay?”

Martin releases a shaky breath. “Okay.”

The hour passes before Martin knows it. Dr. Turner listens attentively, small noises of acknowledgement layered with the scratch of pen on pad. He prompts Martin when needed, directs him gently when he gets caught on a tangent, and asks good questions. An odd relief and an even stranger sense of normalcy settle over Martin as he divulges his history to this stranger. Somehow, it hadn’t actually occurred to him that he was going to be dredging up his shitty home life, and discussing his mum, and talking about the mental health problems that manifested long before his life was a ghoul-fest, but once he does, it’s… freeing. Apparently, living under the thumb of terror incarnate doesn’t neutralise a lifetime of garden-variety trauma. Who knew?

For now, Martin declines to talk about how he lost his sight. He doesn’t want to lie to his therapist right out the gate, but he can’t tell him the truth, either. Dr. Turner’s very professional statement of terms at the beginning of the session made it clear that doctor/patient confidentiality will go out the window if he feels the patient has become a danger to themself or others, and while “I asked the man I’m in love with to gouge out my eyes” doesn’t necessarily breach those conditions, Martin doesn’t want to push it. He hopes that eventually he can trust Dr. Turner enough to tell him the truth about The Magnus Institute, but for now, that’s a distant possibility.

Today, he gets to be a normal guy, with normal trauma, going through a normal life-altering period of change.

When Martin returns to the waiting room, Jon is at his side in a moment, hand on his arm.

“You alright?” he asks softly, as if he thought Martin’s fifty minutes of lavender and soul-bearing would be a gauntlet of torment.

“Yes,” Martin murmurs, and gently elbows Jon’s arm. “It was good.”

Jon sighs, clearly relieved. “Okay. That’s- that’s good.”

“It’s Jon, right?” Dr. Turner asks.

Martin feels Jon tense. “...Yes, it is.”

“It was very kind of you to wait here for Martin.”

“Oh. Um. It wasn’t any trouble.”

“He mentioned that you live together?” The doctor’s voice carries a smile. Despite it being a statement of objective fact, Martin finds his neck warming.

“W-we do,” Jon says rather faintly.

“Good. I was wondering if I might speak with you for a moment.”

“Um.” Jon’s fingertips grip Martin’s sleeve.

Martin leans his elbow into Jon’s shoulder, a gentle push. “Go on, I’ll be fine out here.”

Jon hesitates, but finally releases him and lets Dr. Turner lead him to the office. Martin sits. He makes himself comfortable, then hardly has time to pull out his earbuds and start into an article on his phone before they return. The doctor confirms the date for Martin’s next appointment, and they exchange polite farewells. Martin feels the elbow-bump of Jon’s offered arm, and takes it like an old habit.

Once they step outside, Martin draws a deep breath of the cool September air, heady with pollen and a hint of humidity. Next to him, Jon fidgets.

“Jon,” he says, nudging his shoulder lightly. “What is it?”

“He’s worried you did this to yourself,” Jon says faintly.

Martin stops, dropping Jon’s arm. “W- Jon! You can’t know things about my therapist!”

“What? I didn’t! I- I wouldn’t!” Jon’s indignance is cut through with hurt. “He gave me his information and told me to contact him if I had any concerns, and not hesitate to call the hospital if I was worried that you were a threat to your own safety!”

“Oh.”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Jon snaps.

Sheepish, Martin draws back to Jon’s side. “I’m sorry. That was- that was a dick thing to assume. I shouldn't have. You- you said you wouldn’t invade my privacy.”

“And I won’t,” Jon huffs.

“And you won’t. I believe you.” Martin puts his arm out.

Jon grumbles, but links their arms and begins toward the car again. After a few moments, he clears his throat. “Should I?”

“...Should you invade my privacy?”

“No! No- Should I be worried? A-about your safety?”

“More than normal, or…?”

Jon huffs. “I think you know what I’m talking about.” He sighs. “Martin, I don’t- You mentioned. The other day, when we were talking about my- my eating habits. You- implied. That you used to—”

“Yeah, I remember,” Martin cuts in, because he doesn’t want to hear Jon say it.

“...Right.” Jon’s voice strains. “Martin, do I need to worry?”

Martin’s throat feels thick, his chest crowded. He threads his arm tighter into Jon’s so that he can clasp their hands together.

“No, Jon. That was a long time ago. Things were- well. They’re different, now. I mean, not that everything’s perfect? I’m- I’m pretty sacred? I don’t know if I’ve not been scared since all of this started. But other than that, I...” he squeezes Jon’s hand. “This is the best I’ve felt in a long time.”

Jon makes a small, helpless sort of sound.

“Except for the gaping holes in my face, of course,” Martin says, and he goes up in a flurry of warmth when Jon laughs.

“Except for the gaping holes,” Jon repeats, and leans his shoulder into Martin’s arm.

They fall into step and into silence. It continues, their companionable quiet, until after they’ve settled into the car. Martin is just managing to get his cane wedged into the wheel well (it and the car were not made for each other) when Jon asks,

“How was it? In general.”

“The session?”

“Mm.”

“Honestly, it was… really good. I think I’ve actually maybe needed this for a while?” Martin folds his hand over the back of his neck, rubbing as he lets the admission settle. Jon makes a soft, encouraging sound.

Martin continues, “He had some ideas about things we can start with. And I- I sort of described how it feels, when I drift, um, toward the Lonely? And he said there are lots of practical exercises I can try for that, like mindfulness, and meditation, that sort of thing.”

Jon’s voice perks up. “Do you think that would work?”

“I guess I’ll find out. I’m- actually pretty optimistic, though.” He’s surprised to find, as the words leave his mouth, that they’re true. He smiles to himself. “As I was talking to him, sort of, well, dancing around the stuff about the fears while still trying to describe things I wanted to work on, I sort of realised… The fears are psychological by nature, right? So it sort of makes sense to use psychological techniques to cope.”

Jon halfway manages to choke back a laugh.

“Sorry?” Martin squawks, dropping his hand from his neck. “Pardon me?”

“I’m just- very impressed with your assessment. Fear is psychological. It’s- it’s groundbreaking—” And then Jon is just outright giggling at him.

Dizzy with the moment, Martin says, “I can’t even be angry. You're too adorable.”

Jon’s laughter strangles off. “I- I’m nothing of the sort!”

“I have it on good authority that my ‘assessments’ are ‘groundbreaking,’ so actually, you are.” Martin reaches over and manages to pinch Jon’s cheek before Jon whips his head away.

“Unbelievable.” Jon bats Martin’s hand lightly, the unexpected touch startling him into a high yelp. Jon’s giggles return in spades.

Warm-faced and biting back a stupid grin, Martin rubs melodramatically at his hand. “Attacked for my brave ideas,” he laments. “Thought you were a better man than that.”

Jon snickers. “Well, I certainly don't know what gave you that impression. Wasn't me.”

Martin doesn’t reply, because fondness looms so large in his chest that he fears what words might be forced out of his mouth by the bulk of it.

Despite the silence, energy buzzes between them the whole drive back, until Martin is convinced he could fleece the air and come away with electricity woven between his fingers, thick enough to spin into lightning. The tension lessens once they get home, spread thin through the evening air and then the cabin’s open floor plan, but Martin can still feel it.

As such, he nearly has a heart attack when they’re shedding their coats and Jon says,

“Martin, I… I believe there’s something we should discuss.”

His tone is flat but shot through with nerves, a cocktail that Martin identifies immediately as ‘about a milimetre from losing it but trying to sound neutral.’ It doesn’t inspire confidence.

Still, Martin scrapes through the growing thicket of his apprehension, and manages to say, “What is it?”

For a length of time that Martin would call cruel if he didn’t know better, Jon says nothing. He’s choosing his words, a process that was bad enough when Martin could watch his face and guess at his intentions, and excruciating now that he can’t.

Finally, Jon sucks a sharp breath. He says stiffly, “I think that perhaps you should make living arrangements for yourself, in the event that I don’t survive the blinding.”

Martin goes utterly cold. “Jon. I do _not_ want to discuss this.”

“Martin. W-we can’t avoid the possibility.”

“I’m not avoiding. I’m just—” The frozen lengths of Martin’s obliques and trapezius draw so tight that he feels they might snap. “If it comes to that, I’ll handle it. I can’t- I can’t, right now.”

Jon’s tone sharpens. “If you can’t deal with it now, how will you be able to deal with it after?”

“Don’t talk about it like it’s a sure thing, Jon.”

“It could be! You have to acknowledge that!”

“Someone in this room has to have a shred of optimism!”

“Better pessimism than denial—”

“I know how to deal with death, Jon!” The chill in Martin’s core grows so fierce that it scalds him. “I’ve spent my whole life with it just- _looming_ over me, and this last year alone— I just need a minute! One goddamn minute where I’m not wondering when someone close to me is about to drop dead! Can I have that, please!?”

“I’d be more inclined to give it to you if you hadn’t just spent seven months grieving by acting out a-a death wish!”

“It wasn’t like that,” Martin says, fierce.

Jon sighs wretchedly. “What was it like, then, Martin? Do enlighten me.” A bitter note curls into his voice.

“Not like that,” Martin snaps.

Jon scoffs and starts to pace, trainers slapping the hardwood. “If we could just _discuss_ —”

“If these are my last days with you, then I don’t want to spend them talking about how you might die, okay, Jon!?”

Jon stills. Martin’s heart thunders.

“Martin,” Jon breathes. His voice is broken, and pleading, and soft. It hurts worse than the shouting. “I know i-it’s hard to think about being alone. But I want- I _need_ to know that you’ll be alright if… i-if it goes wrong. I want you to have at- at least a chance of being happy. I love you, Martin, so deeply. If—”

The sound in the room whites out. Martin stands there, brakes thrown. He rolls the conversation back. Turns the words over. Turns them again.

Jon is still talking. Martin has no idea what he’s saying.

“Jon!”

Startled, Jon quiets.

“Jon,” Martin squeaks, “ _what!?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> -Martin has a dream about his mother in the 2nd section. Her dialogue to him is abusive in nature. This begins with "She does not have eyes, but her look of disapproval is a physical weight all the same." and continues through the next 6 lines that include dialogue.  
> -Jon removes Martin’s bandages and cleans his eyelids in the 4th section. Might be a little gross for readers who are sensitive to eye-related content, but there is nothing graphic, and Martin is not in pain. This begins with "This is how Martin ends up seated by the table late that afternoon(...)" and ends with "By the time Jon eventually says, “Alright, that’s sorted,” Martin feels like he could fall asleep right there."  
> -Martin drifts toward the Lonely in the 4th section, and dissociates heavily before being pulled back by Jon. This begins with "“Maybe later,” Martin says finally." and continues until the end of the section.  
> -In the 8th section, Martin's therapist pulls Jon aside offscreen and urges him to contact the hospital if he thinks Martin is a danger to himself. After they leave, Jon asks Martin if he needs to worry about him hurting himself, and Martin assures him that there's nothing to worry about. This exchange begins with, "“Jon,” he says, nudging his shoulder lightly. “What is it?”"
> 
> —
> 
> >:) 
> 
> comments sustain my mortal form!


	5. such a tender place to choose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 5, or: Martin Cries
> 
> this chapter got ,, so fucking long...... it was already chock-full of important stuff and then my brain said "what if..... maximum fluff also" and it just kept growing. i probably should have chopped it up, but i couldn't find a place where i wanted to split it, so. here's this monster. hope yall enjoy lmao
> 
> TWs: implied past aphobia/internalized aphobia, panic attack, internalized ableism, non-explicit discussion of sexual boundaries, implied transphobia and dysphoria, discussion of past self-harm, eye trauma  
> (please visit end notes for more details)

Jon sucks a breath through his teeth, sharp enough to cut. “Christ, I shouldn't have— I-I- uh, I’m sorry, Martin. Those feelings shouldn’t have a-anything to do with this. I want you to understand where I’m coming from, but I- I know that- that I missed that chance, and I-I’ve accepted that, I have. You can just- just forget that I said it. But I need you to understand, I- I want you to have a _life_ , Martin, isn’t that—?”

“Jon!” It’s a shriek. Martin knows it’s a shriek. He can’t help it right now. He can’t unclasp his hands, either: not his right from its death grip on his cane, or his left from his hair, which he might actually pull out. His knees may also be locked. He needs to do something about that.

Jon, at least, quiets again.

“W- you- Jon, why are you just saying this now!?”

“Um. About- about which-?”

“The love confession, Jon! Obviously the love confession!”

Jon’s voice twists with hurt. “Because I know that it’s too little too late, Martin, and I think better of you than to- to bring you these _scraps_ that I have to offer after I’ve wasted years of your time, and you’ve- you’ve grieved, and you’ve moved on, and you’re going through- this!”

Struck dumb, Martin stands, and reels, and listens to Jon heave for air.

“Damn it. I just can’t—” Jon scoffs wetly. “I’ve really fucked this up. I’ve been- just- stealing and stealing from you, and I know better, I just- I felt- _good_ for the first time in so long when you let me take your hands that day we ran, and I’m- goddamn it, I’m a weak man, Martin. But I’ll- I want to respect your wishes, so—”

“When,” Martin cries, spurred back to life and ripping his hand out of his hair to gesture wildly, “have we talked about my wishes!? I don’t even know what you’re on about!”

A few sharp, erratic breaths slice the silence, edged with slight, desperate sounds. “I drove you into the Lonely,” Jon rasps.

Martin’s heart does not break so much as snap, sudden and total and excruciating. “ _Jon_ ,” he says, the syllable leaving his throat raw. “Jon, you didn’t. I- I was in a bad place, okay? It wasn’t your fault you died, alright, and with my mum, and-and Peter’s head games, you can’t—”

“Not that,” Jon says wretchedly. “When I- the day we removed your bandages. I-I- I got so caught up, and I almost— And you knew that I wanted to—” he chokes off. “And it sent you right toward the Lonely.”

“Jon… Jon, no. Jesus.” Martin pushes his glasses up and covers his face with his hand, pressing his fingers hard into his cheeks. His body, for perhaps the first time in his life, feels too small. So many emotions lash through him that it would take a week and a pair of scissors to untangle them.

“Alright,” Martin sighs, dropping his hand. He thinks better of that, and holds it out for Jon. “Come sit with me.”

For an infinite moment, Jon comes no closer. Then the floorboards creek beneath his footsteps, uncharacteristically soft, and he rests his bird-brittle fingers on Martin’s palm. Martin takes his hand like it’s a precious thing, like Jon isn’t a creature beyond the grip of injury and mortality, and leads him to the couch.

When they sit, Jon moves to pull away, but Martin tightens his hand. He sets his cane aside, then draws one leg onto the cushion and turns to face Jon fully. He lays his other hand palm-up between them. Jon makes a soft sound, then surrenders his other hand.

“Jon,” says Martin. He draws deep into the well of his own sincerity, and hopes that Jon will taste it. “Jon, I never stopped loving you.”

Jon’s hands spasm. He makes a noise like he’s been struck.

“Every day.” Martin’s throat wants to close; he defies it, pressing every word through with intention. “Even when you’ve been a dick, and when we’ve been apart, and- and when you’ve been a brilliant, stupid, self-sacrificing idiot. Christ, I’ve loved you so much. I- I still do. Right now. Right here. I love you, and I’m in love with you.”

Martin only stops because he’s run out of breath. His whole upper body burns, and he knows he’s got to be hopelessly red by now, and he wouldn’t be surprised if his heart was beating visibly right out of his chest like a cartoon, stretching the cabling of his jumper.

Finally, Jon says, “Oh.”

Martin barks such a loud, sharp laugh that Jon’s hands flinch in his. “Oh!?” He starts to giggle frantically, and a tear spills down his cheek. “Jon, you- I’m gonna need more than _oh_.”

“I-I- I’m sorry- I’m just-” Jon’s voice wavers, “I’m- I’m trying to—I thought I was too late. I was too late.”

“No,” Martin says, and pulls Jon’s hands to his face, “never.” He brushes his lips across Jon’s knuckles, then stays there, feeling his face furrow as he presses his mouth to battered skin.

A loud, frail noise shatters over Jon’s fierce breaths. “ _Martin,_ ” he says, novel-thick with meaning.

“How,” Martin breathes, lowering Jon’s hands, “did you not _know?_ I-I’m so bloody obvious! I,” he laughs, feels tears sliding down the curve of his jaw, “I agreed to run away with you, for christ’s sake!”

“You refused. Th-the first time.”

“I changed my mind!”

“I thought- I thought that meant that your refusal was- was of _me_. That you changed your mind about- about Quitting, but you didn’t want,” he scoffs a small chuckle and shakily squeezes Martin’s hands, “this.”

“Oh, Jon, seriously? I held your hand for hours, that day.”

“You were afraid of being devoured by the- the literal manifestation of isolation! It was practical!”

“Okay- I’m not saying that’s wrong, but—”

“And you didn’t want me to touch you.”

Martin frowns. “What?”

“I tried- at the pub. You were talking about Peter and you looked upset, and I tried to just- to put my hand on your arm, a-and it was like I’d slapped you.” His voice drops into a whisper. His fingers flutter, stroking Martin’s overheated palms.

“No. No, that…” Martin tilts his head up and sighs, his frustration tightening into a stone in his chest. “That was the Lonely. I was just- used to isolation. It wasn’t you. I’m sorry.”

Jon scoffs a wet laugh. “Don’t apologise. Not for that.”

“No, Jon, I- I’m sorry. I should have said. You- you brought me back, you know that? I really wasn’t myself, and when you came to me, I think- all of the bad stuff sort of came back first? I was angry, a-and bitter, and I was too- I don’t know- locked up to explain any of it.”

For a moment, Jon is quiet. They sit together and they hold hands and they breathe. Jon’s shaky inhalations match slowly with Martin’s steadier ones, until the only sound in the room is a shared tide of air, rolling in and out in tandem.

A small, wet sound comes from Jon’s side of the couch. Licking his lips, Martin thinks. “When you…” Jon’s voice is so thin that it breaks. He coughs, clears his throat. “When you left, the other day. After I- ah—”

“After I thought you were going to kiss me,” Martin whispers. His heart flutters like a dragonfly: fast and easy to crush.

“After I almost kissed you. Did I- was that- bad?”

“Um, not being kissed when I was pretty convinced I would be? Yeah, that was- it kind of sucked.”

The noise Jon makes is nearly hysterical. He pulls one of Martin’s hands forward and lays his forehead against the freckled back of it, pressing in with dry, pockmarked skin. It’s one of the loveliest things Martin has ever felt.

“Christ, I’m stupid,” Jon mutters.

“You’re not.” Martin smiles. “That said? I- I did literally tell you that I wanted to live with you indefinitely.”

The tendons in Martin’s hand roll over his bones as Jon shakes his head against them. “Your exact words were ‘where else would I go’. I thought… neither of us really have anyone, do we? I thought you were just… resigned to being stuck with me.”

“Oh.” Slowly, gently, Martin turns his hand and rakes his fingers through the hair at Jon’s temple. His heart swells as he recognises the gray hairs, more course and wiry than the softer black surrounding. His fingertips skirt the shell of Jon’s ear, then hook behind it to cradle his head while the rest of his hand frames his jaw, so fine and sharp that it feels almost dainty in the palm of his hand.

“Just to be clear,” Martin says while Jon’s throat jumps beneath the wandering sweep of his thumb, “I meant that I couldn't imagine going anywhere that you weren’t.”

Jon’s throat thrums with a sound that Martin doesn’t quite hear. He turns his face into Martin's hand. His stubble tickles pleasantly. His breath, when he speaks, is wet and warm and alive.

“Can I kiss you?” Jon whispers.

It’s hard to tell, but Martin thinks he blacks out for a second. “W- Christ, yeah. Yes.”

Martin draws in slowly, only to startle as Jon lifts away from his hand and meets him with unexpected fervour, turning their first kiss into a collision of cartilage and bone. Martin jerks back with a yelped laugh. Jon gasps, “Shit,” muffled and nasally like he’s holding his nose with his free hand.

“You alright?” Martin asks, unable to keep a chuckle out of it.

“Other than my pride,” Jon mutters.

“Let’s try that again.” Martin takes Jon’s face in both hands, grinning in helpless adoration when he finds the skin flushed hot. _God, I love you_ , he wants to say. Fresh tears pulse down his cheeks as he realises that he can.

“God, I love you, Jon.”

Jon’s hands wrap around Martin’s wrists, and he strokes his thumbs over the twin points of his pulse. His lashes flutter closed against Martin’s fingertips. “I love you, Martin.”

Again, Martin’s body feels too small. Gently, he leads Jon’s face to his, tilts Jon’s head opposite the angle of his own, and Jon lets him, pliant in his hands, trusting. Jon’s lips are chapped and dry. He kisses hesitantly, a bit awkwardly. Martin is much the same, and they part to huff affectionate laughter into each other’s mouths before coming back together, a bit more sure, confident in each others’ acceptance. Jon’s hands settle against Martin’s sides, gripping through his jumper and undershirt to hold the heft of flesh just below the dip of his waist. Martin squeaks into the kiss.

“Sorry,” Jon gasps, laying his forehead against Martin’s. “Is that—?”

“No, no, it’s- yeah. Please.”

It’s hard to start kissing again, with Jon smiling like he is. Martin smiles back, and lowers one hand from Jon’s face to wrap around his back, drawing him in, holding him. The sound Jon makes into his mouth might be a whimper. His lips skate across Martin’s stubble, and his forehead drops to Martin’s shoulder quite before Martin has decided if that was a good noise.

“Sorry,” Jon says before Martin can ask. He sounds choked. “No one’s—” The angles of his hands drift up Martin’s spine, tracing the curves of muscle and fat before settling at the crest of his back, so that Jon’s arms are hooked firmly around him. “Sorry, could- could you just—” He squeezes closer, and Martin melts against him, something thick rising into his throat.

“You want me to hold you?” he whispers.

Jon sighs, surprisingly sharp, like he hates hearing the words. Maybe he does. Still, he says, “Please,” and smushes himself into Martin’s body. And how can Martin do anything other than wrap Jon in his arms? The angle is bad: knees knocking sharply, both of them bent to meet in the middle, Jon’s face sliding down Martin’s chest as the disparity in their height puts him at a disadvantage.

“Here, is this okay?” Martin lays a hand gently on Jon’s thigh, navigating with light taps to steer clear of landing anywhere too intimate, then lifts him a bit. Getting the idea, Jon sighs, “Oh,” and climbs into Martin’s lap.

And they hold each other.

Tension spools out of them both, leaving all thoughts beyond this moment limp and unravelled at their feet. Jon nuzzles his face beneath Martin’s jaw, one arm wrapped around his neck and stroking his opposite shoulder with a knuckle, the other hand pressed gently over his heart. Martin cradles the back of Jon’s head, aching at how small his skull feels in his hand, and trails his fingers in lazy sequences around the undulation of Jon’s spine.

It takes several minutes, with his mind awash in the impossible reality of having Jon in his arms, for Martin to notice what he’s feeling. His hand pauses below Jon’s shoulder blade, and he pinches the familiar fabric between his fingers. He laughs.

Jon’s head lifts, just slightly, from the nook of Martin’s shoulder. “What?”

“I’m just- I’m so daft,” Martin sighs, unable to even feel embarrassed about how happy he sounds. “Of course you like me. You’ve been wearing my clothes for a week.”

Jon lays his head back down and makes a noncommittal grunt.

“Wait- no. Longer?”

Jon lifts his head again and taps the heel of his hand lightly but insistently on Martin’s chest. “I- look, you know the policy about taking things from the lost and found. If you wanted your things back, you should have come and gotten them before the three month recovery period was up! O-o-or perhaps just not kept so many clothes in the office! I don’t know what to tell you!”

Affection swells through Martin, and it’s all he can do to tighten both arms around Jon, tip his face into his shoulder, and laugh against his own sweatshirt, which he has been looking for since January.

With a very loud and put-upon sigh, Jon strokes his fingers through Martin’s hair. “Yes, yes,” he sighs, “Fine. I _like_ you. Is that what you want to hear?”

A thrill surges from Martin’s stomach straight to his scalp, dissipating in fuzzy, glittering embers down his spine. For all that hearing Jon say _I love you,_ has wholly changed his life, he did not realise until this moment how much he needed to know unequivocally that Jon _liked_ him. He knows that Jon enjoys his company, and even values him as a friend; any doubt of that has faded over the last week, especially. But that wasn’t such a foregone conclusion in the past, so hearing the words is, perhaps, a balm for a wound that has been tender for a long time now.

By the time he notices that Jon’s shoulder is growing wet beneath his cheek, it’s too late to save face. Jon gasps in soft realisation, and his hands grow impossibly kinder in Martin’s hair.

“I do like you,” he murmurs, so soft, just for Martin. Martin presses his lips to Jon’s throat, just at the raised edge of the scar tissue there. Jon hums. “You- I like spending my time with you. I- I know I’ve been a prick to you in the past, so I just- I want you to know—”

“We’ve been over this, Jon,” Martin murmurs, sniffling. “You apologised.”

“But I didn’t tell you just how wrong I was. You- I don’t know the full story, a-and god knows you don’t have to tell me, but- I, uh, get the impression that people have treated you with less respect than you deserve, in the past? A-and I feel, just, monu _mentally_ stupid for being one of those people. So, just. I was wrong.” He ducks his head and kisses Martin’s crown, his temple, the peach fuzz between his ear and cheek. “They were all wrong.”

With a wet, shuddering laugh, Martin straightens up. Reluctantly he unwraps one arm from Jon and pushes it across his own face, gathering tears in the cuff of his jumper.

“Jesus, Jon,” he says, throat warbling.

“Too much?”

“Maybe.” Martin smiles, and finds Jon’s cheek, and guides him in for a kiss. It’s brief, gentle, chaste. They part, just barely, and Martin whispers, “Don’t stop, though.”

He feels Jon smile against the corner of his mouth. “What should I say?”

“God, I don’t know. Whatever you want. But, in fairness, I should tell you I- I might fall to pieces, here.” He punctuates the warning by shoving his hand between them to smear away a fresh round of tears.

A puff of air, a warm note between them. “Well, we wouldn’t want that.” The pads of Jon’s fingers sweep up Martin’s neck and across his slick cheeks, and he pulls him in for another kiss. This one is slow, deep. It makes something in Martin’s chest hurt. He holds Jon’s waist, and strokes the broken mirror-image of his lopsided ribs, and he loves him. He loves him.

“I love you,” he says into Jon’s mouth.

Jon breathes that warm little laugh again. “You’ve said.”

“Mm.” Press of lips. “And I’ll keep saying. Built up a lot over the years.”

Shift of angle, gentle suction. “Christ, _years_. I don’t know what you saw in me.”

“Hey.” Martin’s mouth wanders, scraping kisses through Jon’s course stubble. “No self-deprecation during the love confession.”

Jon snorts and tips his head back in an airy laugh, and Martin takes advantage of his fortuity to leave a wet kiss in the bared hollow of throat. The tendons leap beneath his mouth, Jon’s laughter stuttering over a gasp.

He tugs lightly at Martin’s hair. “Down, boy,” he chuckles, and Martin pulls away, cheeks warm around his grin.

“Sorry.”

Jon’s thumb strokes the delicate skin beneath Martin’s empty eye. “Don’t be.”

They sit there for a while, facing each other, hands hesitant to leave the new frontiers unfolded beneath them. Martin’s legs are beginning to go a bit numb beneath Jon’s weight. Eventually, they’ll have to get up. With that thought comes the dizzying reality that when they stand, when they start to pull together dinner, when they lug the old radio inside and set it up… this will have happened. This is real.

“What does this make us?” Martin asks, his voice more hesitant than he intends.

Jon’s nails skate lightly into Martin’s hair, dusting the waves back from his forehead. “Hm?”

“I mean, how do we… define this?”

Jon’s obliques shift beneath Martin’s hands, some movement of his upper body. A shrug, probably. “I don’t know if it matters, given the level of commitment we’re already at.”

“Commitment?” Martin repeats about three octaves higher. “Commitment, he says! Jon.” He pats his hands lightly, pointedly, at Jon’s waist. “Are we dating?”

Jon’s hands fall from Martin’s face. “With our lives, do labels even mean—”

“Yes! Labels mean something! To me! They mean something to me. What are we, Jon?”

Jon’s body stiffens, and Martin instinctively releases his waist. He slides off of Martin’s lap and settles next to him, still pressed together at the elbows and thighs.

After a few moments of alternate silence and sighing, Jon finally says, “I- I don’t want to jinx it.” He lays his temple on Martin’s shoulder. “It’s like... having a skittish animal trust you. Even the smallest movement could startle it and ruin everything.”

Martin frowns. “I’m not the skittish animal in this scenario, am I?”

Jon entertains a humorless little laugh. “No, no, it’s- it’s things being good. Feeling safe. It’s so... tenuous.” He sighs again. A master at sighing, this man.

Martin doesn’t know what to say. In the vacuum, fear bleeds in. “ _Do_ you want us to be something?”

Jon jerks away with an affronted noise. “ _Obviously_ , Martin. I just—” He exhales through his teeth. “I hate this damn conversation.”

“Seriously? Talking about feelings is hardly the worst thing—”

“No,” Jon says, with a sudden and surprising anguish, “not that. It’s- ugh—”

Understanding strikes Martin; his gut clenches fist-like around it. “What- you mean, about how you don’t do the whole,” he makes a vague, helpless gesture, “sex thing?”

Jon groans, and his next words sound muffled behind his hands. “Yes, Martin, about how I don’t do the ‘whole sex thing.’ You don’t know how many—” he bites off, huffs. When he speaks again, the muffling is gone, and he sounds wounded. “I just- I hate this part. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I’m just- I loathe the idea of asking you to- to have less than you deserve, o-o-or—”

“Okay, can I cut in, here?” Martin’s heart, which has gone through a whiplash of devastation and rebirth over the last hour, can’t take whatever the end of that thought was going to be.

“Sure,” Jon murmurs in monosyllabic defeat. Martin sighs and puts both hands out. When nothing happens, he flexes his fingers pointedly. Finally, Jon’s hands ease into his.

Deep breath. “Jon. It really doesn’t matter to me.” Jon clicks a sceptical _tch_ , which makes Martin chuckle despite everything. He sobers quickly, the ache in his chest difficult to smile around. “I’m serious. It’s- it was really never on my agenda to do anything like that with you. I- since the Lonely, I don’t even know if it’s something I want anymore. And maybe I’ll- I mean, if I get farther away from all of this, then maybe that bit of me will come back, but honestly, I don’t miss it. It was never a big part of my life in the first place. I mean, sex is nice, I guess, like, it can be really lovely in the right circumstances, but really it’s mostly a- a lot of pressure? And I haven’t exactly—anyway. When it comes to you, I- Jon, if-if all you wanted was this, just holding hands and being near each other, I could do that. Christ, I’ve _been_ doing that. I chose this. I chose you.”

For a moment, Jon just breathes heavily. His hands are tight on Martin’s.

“Jon. You have to talk to me,” he murmurs, stroking Jon’s ragged skin.

“I-uh, uh, right,” Jon says thickly. He clears his throat. “Um. In that case. I-if you wanted to… to talk about, um. Labels. I’m, um, amenable to that.”

Martin smiles and pulls Jon’s hands to his chest. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

“I, um- right. Yes. Uh, b-boyfriends, then?” At Jon’s hesitance, Martin lifts his brow. “Boyfriends,” Jon says more firmly. “We’re boyfriends.”

Martin is not prepared for the burst of butterflies that sends through every branch of him. Knowing it’s childish and truly unable to help it, he tucks his chin to his chest and pulls Jon’s hands up to press against his forehead, hiding a grin that he’d wager is visible from space.

Chuckling, Jon frees his hands from Martin’s grip. He catches Martin’s glasses, which have begun a stealthy slide off his bowed head. Setting them aside, he takes Martin's chin and slowly tilts his head up.

“That’s acceptable, then?” Jon asks with an audible smile.

“Oh, yeah. Acceptable. Just- adequate, you know. Decent.” Martin shrugs. “Nothing to write home about.”

A deep, warm laugh flows through Jon, and spills into Martin, and keeps rippling between them.

“I love you,” Jon says.

Suddenly Martin snorts, his laughter crumbling into giggles.

Jon huffs. “What?” His bemusement only spurs Martin on.

“It’s just—” Martin wipes away a tear and snickers. “I don’t know if he was serious, but I think I might owe my therapist ten quid.”

They dissolve together into hazy delight.

* * *

It rains that evening. Martin and Jon bask in the steady music of the storm while they eat the dinner they prepared together, facing each other from opposite ends of the couch (ankles linked, a bit of footsie played, because they’re both feeling like teenagers).

With a deep, contented sigh, Jon sets aside his plate, a light clatter of cutlery against copper against wood. He hums lowly and taps the ball of his foot on Martin’s shin. “Might be an early night for me,” he says.

Martin sighs, smiling a bit as he sinks against the arm of the couch. “That’s not a bad idea. I’m knackered. Hard work, working out years of pent-up feelings.”

Jon hums again, light and pleased. “Quite.” His hand settles on Martin’s ankle, which he gives a pat. “Dishes, then?”

“If we must.”

There isn’t much washing to do, but Jon somehow still manages to put several wet, sudsy handprints on Martin over the course of the chore. It’s probably a bit Martin’s fault for not reprimanding him, but it’s hard to complain when Jon keeps grabbing him and lifting to his toes to kiss him with varying degrees of length and intensity. Martin never would have guessed that Jon was so demonstrative, and the reality of it might actually stop his overfull heart.

When the dishes are finished, Jon hops backwards onto the counter and loops his arms around Martin’s neck, easing them into a less severe angle. Martin grips his hips and marvels for the twentieth time today that he’s kissing Jon Sims, and Jon Sims is kissing him. (Because he wants to! Because he loves him! Fuck!)

Abruptly, Jon jerks back and says, “Damn it.”

Martin’s hands spring away. “Jon? Did I—?”

“Oh- no, Martin, it’s not you.” A quick, apologetic peck on the cheek. “The roof’s leaking.”

Straightening, Martin steps back so that Jon can get off of the counter. “The roof?”

“Yes.” Jon slides down to his feet, trailing his fingers from Martin’s shoulder to his hand as he goes. A moment later, he sighs loudly from the hall.

Already heading to pick up the wooden wash basin from the corner of the living room, Martin calls, “How bad?”

“It could be worse, I suppose.”

Martin joins Jon in the hall and stretches his hand out to test the level of disaster they’re working with. A slow, fat procession of droplets pools in his palm; not great, but nothing they can’t manage. He sets the basin under the leak, and the drips increase in pitch and volume as they meet their end against the denser wood.

Jon sighs and leans into Martin’s side. “Proper handyman.”

Going warm in the face, because apparently it doesn’t take much, Martin puts his arm around Jon’s shoulders. “Yes, I dunno if I’ve told you, but I’m very butch.”

“Practically cro-magnon.”

“Rude,” Martin says, and then Jon kisses him again.

Just as it’s beginning to seem they could spend another several minutes making up for lost time with their mouths alone, Martin has to pull back at the behest of a jaw-cracking yawn. Jon chuckles at him, only to catch it.

They fall into their already-familiar bedtime routines, working around each other wordlessly. Martin finds himself lying on his back with his hands folded on his stomach at a quarter ‘til nine, empty of every last hint of the drowsiness that brought him here. Jon gets into his own bed a few minutes later. Martin can hear him fidgeting.

“Martin—”

“Jon—”

They both laugh, a bit stilted. Then they go silent, each waiting for the other to speak first.

Finally, Martin says, “I was just thinking—”

as Jon begins, “I wondered if—”

and that’s all Martin can take. He rolls over and stretches a hand out to Jon, exasperated but smiling. “For christ's sake, just get up here.”

Jon bats his hand away, but climbs into bed a moment later, wedging his own pillow next to Martin’s. Fluttering fills Martin’s stomach, his cheeks sore from containing the absurd smiles that have tempted him nearly every moment of this day. He slides to the far end of the bed with the intent of giving Jon room to establish a side, only to be followed by grasping hands.

“Oh,” Martin chuckles as Jon pulls one of Martin’s heavy arms around his bony shoulders, “yes, of course, help yourself.”

“You invited me,” Jon says sourly, and hooks his knee over Martin’s. He slides an arm across Martin’s waist, then his hand falters at the small of Martin’s back. “If- if you don’t want—”

All too softly, Martin says, “Of course I want,” then feels very vulnerable and a bit silly for it. But Jon breathes a small, awed sound, and kisses his shoulder through his t-shirt, and Martin decides he would say a thousand silly, vulnerable things for this. He’d do much worse. Hell, his eyes were a bargain for the whisper of Jon’s erratic heartbeat against his sternum.

Wriggling a bit, Jon squeezes an arm up between them and lays the backs of his knuckles on Martin’s cheek.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Jon murmurs.

Tears sting at the corners of Martin’s eyes. He turns his head to brush his lips over scalded skin, then drops his cheek back to the pillow, fitting his chin over the crown of Jon’s head. “Worth the wait,” he whispers.

As he drifts to sleep in Jon’s arms, Martin tries to remember the last time he was this happy. Slumber takes him before he can recall.

* * *

The Archives are actually quite peaceful at night.

Martin reclines in his desk chair, inhaling the heady scent of old stories on older paper, and folds his hands behind his head. He can’t remember what he’s staying late for, though surely that means he finished it already. It’s just him and the cavernous room and the stacks, and he finds himself oddly comfortable with it all. This feeling is belonging, he thinks.

A soft _mmrp_ bursts the silence, and Martin barely has time to squeak before a cat hops onto his desk.

“Oh!” He chuckles and puts a hand over his heart. “You scared me.” He rolls his chair forward again, having pushed away in alarm. “Well, hullo. Aren’t you a handsome one?”

It’s a large cat, made larger by its thick charcoal fur, which looks incredibly soft to the touch. Martin extends a careful hand. The cat pads over, eyes bright, and butts its head gently into his palm. Yes: soft. Soft as hell.

Martin loses himself quickly to little hums of friendly nonsense, scritching around the cat’s ears and down between its shoulder blades. He feels the ridged fabric of a collar somewhere in there, and searches in its fur until his fingers brush metal. Unearthing the tag from the fluff, he smiles.

“The Admiral, huh? What an important young man you are!” He curls his fingers under the cat’s chin, getting a content little chirp for his troubles. “I didn’t think kitties liked the water,” he says, vaguely aware that he’s slipping fully into baby-talk, rounding off his velar sounds. “You’re so brave to have joined the navy, The Admiral. Cat Queen and Cat Country, hmm?”

As if it finds his babbling patronising, the cat executes a one-eighty turn, presenting Martin with its flicked-up tail and subsequent arse. He laughs and lifts his hands in surrender. “Sorry! Don’t worry, god knows I’m not very patriotic, either.” The cat cuts him a little glare over its shoulder and flicks an ear. “Mm,” Martin says seriously. “Couldn’t have put it better, myself.”

Primly, The Admiral starts to survey Martin’s desk, putting its head in his pencil cup, rubbing up against his monitor, taking special care to strike as many keys as possible when it steps on his keyboard. Finally, it takes a very suspicious seat beside the mug sitting on the corner of the desk. Martin predicts the batting paw that comes next, and manages to snatch the mug away before it meets an untimely end on the concrete floor.

“Hey! That’s for Jon.” As Martin clutches the mug close and says the words, his brow furrows. When did he brew this? Why is it sitting on his desk getting cold instead of going to Jon? It still feels warm in his hands, at least. Odd. “Well, come on, then,” he sighs at The Admiral. “I should check on him, anyway.”

Martin heads for Jon’s office, with the cat trotting silently at his side. They walk. And walk. And walk. Were the Archives always this big? So dark? He can hardly see the walls from where he is. _Are_ there walls?

Martin glances at the cat from the corner of his eye and chuckles nervously. “Does this feel weird to you, The Admiral?”

The Admiral treats him to a pointed _mrow_ , but has little else to offer.

“Yeah,” Martin says, frowning. “Me, too.”

He looks up, then gasps and stumbles to a stop before he can run face-first into the _Head Archivist_ plaque on the door directly in front of him. “There you are,” he mutters. He reaches for the handle. His hand stops just over it. His fingers twitch, hovering as near to the metal as they can without touching. _Check if it’s warm,_ something whispers from the depths of his skull. It giggles like a migraine.

After letting his hand hang there for a moment, Martin determines that the handle isn’t warm. It’s just a door. Why wouldn't it be just a door? Shrugging, he gives a perfunctory knock, then steps inside.

 _Oh,_ he thinks as he crosses the threshold. _I’m dreaming_.

He’s standing in a living room he doesn’t recognise. It’s a small flat, clean but lived-in. Framed artwork adorns the walls, the kind that Martin knows is objectively good art but that makes him a little uncomfortable to look at. They’re abstract, but in that way that might actually be nudes. A banner hangs between the double windows, studded with a series of pennants in the full range of Pride flag colours. On the coffee table, among the cup rings built up like stratum, is a thick, glossy photo book titled _SPECTRES; spirits on film_.

Most importantly, Jon sits on the couch. He looks up when Martin enters. He’s wearing his glasses, which shouldn’t be weird. But it is. Because he hasn’t needed them since the coma. Because this must not really be Jon. Real Jon would have—

“Your eyes.”

This Jon only has two. The thick brows above them furrow, and his mouth tweaks. “What? Martin, I’m really quite busy. Did you need something?”

After blinking at him for a moment, Martin remembers the mug in his hand. “Um, I brought you some tea, I- I guess?”

Jon glowers. “You guess?”

“I brought you tea,” Martin says pointedly, then leans with the intention of placing the cup on the table.

A tarantula scuttles out of the mug, so big that even Martin startles. Jon shouts and scrambles to his feet without getting off the couch, standing on the cushions in his oxfords.

“Huh,” Martin says, and sets the mug down so that he can turn his hand over. The tarantula climbs happily into the warmth of his palm. The Admiral leaps onto the coffee table, gives the spider a sniff, then turns its attention to the mug.

Jon, whose face has gone quite grey, hisses, “ _Martin_. Don’t touch that thing! What the hell is going on!?”

“I’m not sure.” Martin takes a glance around, and absently sets the spider on his shoulder. It isn’t real, after all. “I’m clearly dreaming.”

Jon makes a high, glottal noise of indigence. “Martin, _now_ isn’t the time for- for _jokes_ —”

“You know,” Martin says, “I’m usually not aware that I’m dreaming? As far as lucid dreams go, this kind of sucks. No offense.” The spider crawls around the back of his neck to his other shoulder. Unthinking, he pets at its fuzzy abdomen. “At least it’s not a nightmare, I guess.”

Jon strangles out a whimper. “That- that _thing_ is a nightmare.” He points at the tarantula, finger shaking. “Get- get that away from me.”

The tremor in Jon’s voice alerts something in Martin. A protective instinct, maybe, or a line of empathy pulled taut. Whatever is, he looks at the panicked man in front of him, properly looks, and understands all at once that the fear pouring from him is very real. “Oh. Jon… is this _your_ nightmare?”

“Clearly!” Jon snaps. “I’m in hell!”

“Not- not metaphorically. Like, literally.” Martin looks around. “Is this somewhere you know?”

Even while trembling in the face of exposure to his deepest phobia, Jon scoffs with every lick of the drama available to him. “I think I know the _Archives_ , Martin.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the Archives in here, Jon.”

“What are you—” Jon looks around, mouth half-open, then freezes. Surprise loosens his features, eyes going wide. “W- how…?”

“I think you’re dreaming. And I guess- I guess I’m in your dream? Like you’re in mine?”

Looking drawn, Jon lowers himself to sit shakily on the back of the couch. “That’s not possible,” he says, looking suddenly very small.

Martin wants to go to him, to hold him, but he doesn’t know what to do with the spider. He’s pretty sure Jon would die of fright if he set it down, and he’s certainly not going to kill it, even if it is just a dream spider. Instead, he says,

“Okay, well, I think we’re sort of past impossible, so—”

“You don’t get it,” Jon says, and it’s sharp and loud and wavering. “I don’t have dreams of my own anymore, Martin. When I sleep, I- I belong to the Eye. I don’t- this shouldn’t be happening. It should be here. It should- I don’t-” He doesn’t seem to be remembering to breathe.

Raising his arms slowly so as not to disturb the tarantula, Martin spreads placating hands. “Hey, Jon. Jon. Breathe with me for a moment, okay?” Jon’s face twists at that, but his eyes drop to Martin’s chest all the same. Slowly his slight frame begins to lift and sink, keeping rhythm with Martin’s metronome breaths. The Admiral leaps onto the couch, then up to Jon, and curls into his lap. Jon’s hand settles into its fur like a reflex.

While they breathe together, Martin gazes at Jon. Maybe it’s more of a shameless stare, but he hasn’t had the option in a while, so he hardly thinks he can be blamed. It’s not the same as actually seeing him; like everything in a dream, Jon’s appearance is more of a suggestion than a reality, a concept that will lose structure the moment consciousness touches it. Still, it’s nice. He looks—

Wrong, actually.

Martin’s stomach drops. The nausea is not unlike the twisting fingers of the Stranger or the Spiral—but he can actually _tell_ that Jon is different, so that’s a good sign. There isn’t anything actively sinister about his appearance. He just seems a bit… off. Like a bad photo of himself, all unflattering angles. He looks jaundiced and dry, his wrinkles more numerous, his hair especially greasy, the normally delicate hinges of his wrists and ankles made knobby and jagged at the cuffs of his unbuttoned sleeves and wrinkled trousers. It is only when Martin notices how much deeper the worm scars go, how broad the lick of Daisy’s knife, how the flesh of one hand seems ready to slough off in a heap of carmine wax, that he understands.

“Jon, is… is this how you see yourself?”

Jon’s brow furrows. He glances down. “This is how I look.” He glances back up, furrow deepened. “Is something wrong?”

“Um- no.” Martin files the information away, unsure what to do with it in the moment. “Sorry, um. Are you feeling better?”

“I’m fine,” Jon sighs. He takes one final deep breath and gives Martin the flickering corner of a smile. “Right. Well. It’s… obviously you. You’re hidden from the Eye, so if you’re… in my mind, then I’m hidden, too.”

That makes sense, but, “How am I _in your mind?_ ”

Jon shrugs. “My best guess? Whatever proverbial door I use to enter your dreams opens both ways.”

“Maybe.” Martin hums. “D’you think it’s ‘cause we’re together?”

Attention fallen to the middle distance, Jon looks up. “Hm?”

“I mean, in the real world. We’re,” Martin motions between them and feels his face warm a bit, like he’s referring to something other than adults slumbering responsibly in the same bed, “we’re together, you know? Physically, we’re touching. A-and I guess emotionally, too, now that we’re dating.” He does a pretty good job of not sounding as giddy as he feels about that fact. This really isn’t the time for butterflies. “Maybe that makes it, I don’t know, reciprocal?”

Jon leans back, resting his head against the wall and scritching The Admiral’s arching back. “That… makes a certain kind of sense.” He closes his eyes for a moment and huffs a chuckle. “Dream logic.”

“So, where is this, exactly?” Martin peeks at one of the eccentric paintings again, squinting.

“Oh. I-it’s Georgie’s, I suppose.” Jon smiles crookedly, tiredly. “I was under the impression that this was my office until a few minutes ago. Forgot what that’s like, when you’re dreaming of something and your mind insists that it’s actually something else.”

Martin nods. “Yeah, this is… you know what? I was going to say it’s weird, but it’s really not that bad. I mean, other than this guy,” he nods at the spider, “this is, like, a really tame dream?” He sucks in a breath. “Unless—oh, god, did something terrible happen to you here?”

“No, Martin.” The fondness in Jon’s voice threatens to floor him. They’ve been together for all of eight hours and already the affection Jon shows him is derailing his ability to focus on the literal dreamwalking mystery they’re discussing. “It’s just Georgie’s. I must admit, this is… surprisingly pleasant, given what my dreams were like before Beholding.”

There’s a history there, but Martin leaves it. Instead, he tosses his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Well, I, for one, am not too sad about- augh!”

The tarantula bolts down Martin’s chest. Jon shouts. The Admiral springs into the air and scrambles away. Martin recovers and manages to scoop the spider into one hand, caging it with the other on top. Its soft bristles tickle his fingers. He bites back a smile, because Jon does not look like he would appreciate that at this moment.

“Why is that thing still here!?” Jon has wrapped his arms around himself, glaring at Martin’s hands and breathing hard again.

“It’s okay, it’s okay! I’ll take him out.” Martin turns to leave. “Um.”

The wall is a page. Ink—rust-red, scab-red—bleeds through the thick, pulpy white. It blooms across the wall, splashing, staining, spreading. It eeks into every fibre of the page, save for a few strokes which remain negative space: four crude lines, which form a rectangle, in the size and shape of a door.

Hushed, Jon gasps, “No—”

_KNOCK KNOCK._

Martin staggers back. Jon shouts his name, then suddenly he is close and his fingers dig into Martin’s shoulders to drag him away from the picturebook door. In his alarm, Martin drops the spider. Jon strikes out with his heel, but its many legs evade him, and it skitters off unharmed.

They keep stumbling back until they fall over the coffee table. Martin shouts as he lands wrong on his elbow. Jon keeps scrambling away, his fingers clenched in Martin’s shirt.

_KNOCK KNOCK._

This is not so much heard as it is known, like instinct is known. Like fear is known.

Draped over the coffee table, Martin winces at the corner biting into his stomach. Jon has fallen between the table and the couch, his back pressed hard to his obstacle, his eyes terribly open and his lips moving in desperation.

“Jon,” Martin says, and as he reaches for him, he understands what Jon is saying, again and again, like a prayer:

“Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake—”

Jon can’t wake up. Martin looks back at the door. The ink has given up all pretenses of being anything other than blood. It oozes onto the floor and around the still-white edges of the door frame, giving it volume, making it real.

Martin grasps Jon’s hands. Jon jumps, like he’d forgotten he was there, but when their eyes meet, he whimpers Martin’s name.

“I know,” Martin says.

 _KNOCK KNOCK_.

Jon flinches hard: once, twice. Martin squeezes his hands.

“I’m going to wake you up, okay?”

Impossibly, Jon’s eyes flare wider, exposing the delicate network of veins shooting towards his irises, and the thin wet sheen trimming his lower lashes. He begins to say, “Don’t lea—”

And Martin wakes.

He is, for a moment, frozen with the relief of seeing nothing. Then he smells sweat and feels wet, hot breath against his throat and hears Jon, gasping breaths rough and shallow then expelling them as whimpered pleas. He spares about half a thought to whether he can wake Jon without startling him, but then Jon _shouts_ , and the shout is _please_ , and Martin is shaking him before he’s fully made a decision.

Jon wakes with a blithering, formless yell. His nails bite into Martin’s wrists.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Martin runs his hands up into Jon’s hair, stroking through his ruined braid, petting his thumbs across his temples. “Hey, you’re safe. You’re okay. It was just a dream.” He kisses Jon’s forehead, finds it sweat-slick. Jon swallows down a whine. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Slowly, Jon’s fists uncurl from Martin’s wrists. He begins to shrink inward. Martin fears for a moment that he’s going fetal, but instead, he sinks his cheek into Martin’s thin t-shirt, and then reaches up and wraps both of his arms around Martin’s neck.

“Jesus christ,” Jon croaks, nearly losing the words in Martin’s soft chest.

“Yeah.” With his free hand, Martin rubs across Jon’s back, climbing and falling, rhythm steady against Jon’s uneven breaths. Between them, their hearts pound. Martin can’t tell which is his.

“Been- been a while,” Jon whispers, “since I, uh. Since- since I-I had a normal nightmare.”

“Do you… do you want to talk about it?”

“I, uh… no.”

Martin continues drawing his hand up and down Jon’s spine, and wishes he knew what to say. Finally, he settles on asking, “You want to get up?”

Jon sighs, loud and long. “Well, I, uh, I- I don’t think I’ll be going back to sleep.”

Martin asks his phone for the time. 2:09 AM, it tells him. Twin groans rise from their tangle of limbs. Haltingly, Jon begins to pull away.

“You go back to sleep. I’ll just—”

“You’ll just nothing.” Martin sits up and reaches to pluck the string of the bedside lamp.

Jon groans. “Bright,” he grumbles.

“Tough.” Martin settles against the headboard and holds out his arms. “Come on.” Jon rises and folds against him, hugging Martin’s waist as if by habit, scraping Martin’s throat with his stubble as he nuzzles in. He slackens when Martin encloses him in his arms, at the weight of hands settling heavily on his slim lower back. Still a bit dizzy with the reality of the whole thing, Martin rests his cheek against Jon’s head. The pressure of their skulls against each other pushes a little flare of discomfort though his occipital cavities, but at the moment, he can’t bring himself to care.

After a few minutes have passed and their respective adrenaline has settled, Jon murmurs, “Should… _should_ we talk about it?”

Martin sighs. It scatters Jon’s hair. “Probably.”

Lightly, Jon traces a pattern on Martin’s sleeve. “In the morning?”

“In the morning.”

Eventually, the morning comes. They don’t talk about it.

* * *

Jon’s doctor’s appointment is the next day, in the early afternoon. He jitters around all morning, irritable and disinterested in breakfast. Martin’s few attempts to soothe him are met with a snappish attitude, so he leaves it alone. He’s had enough experience with bad patients to last a lifetime, and more importantly, Jon’s complex relationship with his own health is not really something Martin belongs in the middle of.

Still, he worries.

As Jon drops him off at Alba’s store, Martin takes his hand, gives it a light squeeze, and tells him, “I’m really glad you’re doing this for yourself.”

Jon sighs. He’s quiet for a moment, then he darts in and leaves a feather-light peck on the corner of Martin’s mouth. “Yes, alright,” he mumbles, like a child embarrassed by a relative’s cheek-pinching.

A smile takes Martin’s lips; he bites the lower one, trying to keep it in check. “You’ll be okay? I can still come with you.”

“I- yes, I’ll be fine,” Jon huffs. He squeezes Martin’s hand back, then lets go. “I’ll see you soon.” Martin waves after him, then (minding the stair!) enters the shop.

The bell chimes above his head, and from the direction of the till, Alba whistles. “Did Ah see a bit o' snoggin’ oot thare?”

Martin regrets, not for the first time in his life, that he can blush at the drop of a hat. That’s exactly what she wants. “Hullo to you too, Alba.”

Cackling, Alba rounds the counter and gives him a firm pat on the shoulder. Having done this, she makes a thoughtful sound. “Martin, hen, how dae ye feel aboot hugs?”

Caught off-guard, as is his perpetual state around this hurricane of a woman, Martin laughs. “Hugs?”

“A’m a hugger,” she says solemnly.

“Oh! Oh, sure, that’s- fine, if you— oh!”

Alba is quite a small thing, so it rather startles Martin that her creaky, flabby arms can exert so much pressure. Her head barely comes up to his chest, and he hardly has to lift his hand to pat her on the back, but she comes close to knocking the air out of him. For all its intensity, it’s a brief hug, and she caps it with, predictably, a slap to his shoulder.

“Now, tell me ye two hae git yerselves a fuckin’ radio.”

Martin’s confirmation that they have, indeed, procured a radio turns somehow into a discussion about roof-patching techniques, and before Martin knows it, he’s sitting behind the counter, perched on a stool that’s probably a bit too old to be trusted with his weight, chatting with Alba like he’s known her for years. It’s hard to believe that the Lonely made him forget not only how good he is at easing himself into the lives of strangers, but how much he enjoys it. It makes him feel like he’s doing something right, proving wrong everyone who’s told him over the years that he’s too people-pleasing, too accommodating. This is a _skill_ , damn it, and one he’s proficient in.

As the conversation wears on, however, he suspects that Alba would be happy to talk to anyone with a pulse. She tells him, with the matter-of-fact detachment that people often bring to their own personal tragedy, that she used to run this store with her husband, but in the last year his health has kept him home more and more.

“Tis hard tae watch th' one ye love gang thro' that,” she sighs.

Martin makes a small noise in agreement. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It really is.”

“Aye, hen.” She puts a hand high on his back. “Yer laddie haes some health problems, then? Ah did wonder.”

Martin spends a whole few moments wondering if Jon really looks that bad, before remembering the scars. “Oh, yeah, um. He’s been through a lot.” There, that’s vague enough, right?

“Ye dinnae have tae talk aboot it,” Alba says softly. She gives his back a light little pat, and Martin feels his throat thicken.

“Um- actually.” He draws a long, heavy breath. He thinks of the desperation in Jon’s voice, the sheer weight of that first _I love you_. He has to face this. For Jon, he will do the hard work.

“Uh, Jon’s… he might not have long to live.” The words are frail, but they plunge like stones into the quiet of the room. Alba makes a small sound and starts to rub his back. Tears spring to Martin’s eyes; he flicks up his glasses and covers his face with his hand. He wonders, wildly, if his mother ever comforted him like this. He can’t remember. “We’re still, um, waiting? To- to find out exactly what’s going on. But he, um… he wanted me to try to make some connections in town, so I wouldn't be- alone. If he, um.” His chest tightens off, cutting the air from his throat.

“Och, hen,” Alba says softly. “Come ‘ere.” Her brittle little hand presses lightly on his back, and Martin goes limp under it. She tucks his face against her shoulder, and pats her hands gently between his shoulders, and murmurs, “Thare, thare,” and other such platitudes, and it takes Martin a very long while to fully understand that he’s weeping.

Shame flushes through him, thick and sticky-hot. He gasps, trying to gather the air to speak, but the effort breaks over a sob. All he can do is let his face loll against Alba’s shoulder, and inhale the powder-and-linen-and-old-person scent of her, and try not to get snot on what feels like a very nice cardigan.

When he finally gathers himself enough to sit up, his lower back aches and his arms shake. “Christ, I-I’m so sorry, I- I barely know you, I shouldn’t have—”

“Hush, now. None o’ that,” Alba says firmly, no room for argument. “That’s some heavy shite tae be carrying oan yer own. Ye’r awright tae bring yer sorrows 'ere any time. Ye’r a guid laddie. Ah kin tell that, ye ken.” Martin gives her a soggy chuckle. “And if- heaven forbid- it comes tae it, A’ve git a spare room ye cuid bade in if something happens.”

Halfway through scrubbing his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, Martin falters. “Oh. Alba, that’s- really sweet, but you don’t have to—”

“Clam up 'n' accept mah generous hospitality.” She gives his back a slap and finally withdraws her hand. “A’m sorry yer havin’ such a trachle o' it, hen. Ah hope he’ll be awright.”

Weak though it is, Martin smiles at her. “Thanks.”

“‘N’ ye ken, ye dinnae hae tae wait tae visit 'til someone is dying, ye numpty. If he’s up tae it, ye shuid bring Jon ower fur tea one night. He looks lik’ he cuid use some bridie on they bones! ‘N’ ye kin catch up wi’ mah guidman ‘n’ tell me how quality mah cookin’ is.”

Martin’s fledgling smile widens, flutters of tired muscle unfurling to the far corners of his mouth. “Okay. That- that sounds really nice. Thank you.”

“O’ coorse, hen.”

They drift back to lighter topics, and Martin feels a bit more human by the time the bell jingles over the door. He sits up straight, anticipation and affection filling him too completely for him to slouch. But Alba says, “Jenny! Good tae see ya,” and he shrinks again. Stupid. There are people other than Jon in the world.

After the customer leaves, Alba sorts change on the counter with little metallic clicks. “Didnae even introduce herself tae ye,” she clucks. “Chust as well. She’s a bit o’ a boot.”

Martin’s mouth quirks halfway to a smile. “A boot?”

“Bitch, if ye like,” Alba says sagely, and Martin laughs, and something in his chest loosens.

A few more customers come around before the footsteps through the door are Jon’s.

“Aye, guid tae see ye again, Jon!” Alba chirps. Martin is already standing and rounding the counter, a hand outstretched. He doesn’t realise how tense he’s gone until Jon’s fingers weave between his and his shoulders instantly uncoil.

“How was it?” Martin asks.

“It- it was fine.” One of Jon’s less successful lies. “Can we- talk about it later?”

A little squeeze, and Martin releases his hand. “Of course.” He turns back toward the till. “I think we’re going to head home. Thanks for- thank you. Really.”

“Aye, dinnae mention it, hen.” A beat, then she gasps, “Och! A’m a bawheid! Ah a'maist forgot yer yarns!” She bustles into the back, and returns in a flourish of crinkling paper. “ ‘Ere ye gang,” she says, and Martin receives a sack bursting with yarn. She gives a second bag to Jon, who accepts it with an awkward, mumbled, “Thanks?” that has Martin biting back a smile.

“What do I owe you?” Martin shifts his cane so that he can grab his wallet, but Alba tuts loudly.

“Ah wilnae hae it. Call it a fàilte gift.”

“Fàilte…?”

“Ceud mìle fàilte,” Jon says suddenly, with the absentminded easiness of the Eye’s knowledge. “A hundred thousand welcomes.”

“Aye, Ah knew my feelin aboot ye two was richt,” Alba crows. There is a clap and a subsequent “oof” from Jon, telling Martin that Alba has deployed her particular brand of slap-based friendship on his boyfriend. “So A’ll see ye ‘n’ Martin at mine fur tea soon, richt, Jonny, lad?”

“Jon,” he corrects reflexively, sounding a little dazed.

Martin figures he should probably intervene. “Thank you so much, Alba. This is unbelievably generous.” He hefts the sack of yarn and smiles. “We can talk dates for dinner next time I’m in?”

“Sounds barry, hen. Dinnae take tae lang, ye hear?”

“Yes ma’am,” Martin chuckles, and nudges Jon with his elbow. “Ready?”

“Ah- yes. Good to see you, Alba.”

“Likwise, hens. Bye!”

As they walk back to the car, Jon grumbles one of his low, throaty sounds.

Martin chuckles. “What?”

“She’s a lot.”

“Yeah, a bit. I like her. She’s... really kind.”

“Generous with her yarn, at the very least.”

Said yarn goes unceremoniously into the back when they reach the car. Jon drops something else on the seat, something that sounds light but compact.

Martin frowns. “What’s that?”

“It’s…” Jon sighs. “It’s a cane.”

“Oh.” Judging by Jon’s tone, Martin should be careful what he says next. What he wants to say is, ‘I’m so glad you’ll have something to help, and I’m very proud of you for making the effort,’ but he feels distinctly that Jon would not receive that well. He rounds the car and slides into the passenger’s, then goes with a hesitant, “How do you feel about it?”

Jon groans, and the car jerks slightly as he drops with a _whumph_ into his seat. He slams the door behind him. “I don’t know. It shouldn’t- I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Jon, hey. It’s- you know it’s a good thing, right?”

“No, I know, it’s just-” He growls a sigh through his teeth. “I shouldn't need it.”

A cold bolt of dismay lances through Martin’s chest. “Jon—”

“Damn, no, that’s- that’s not what I meant. It- that infernal worm obliterated my cartilage, so of course I- it’s just- I’m _thirty-one_ , Martin. That’s- that’s too young.”

And Martin hurts for him. He really does. But Jon has a habit of being obtuse to the point of stupidity, and he is doing so right now. So, without comment, Martin opens the passenger door, maneuvers his own cane out of the wheel well, and drops it on the ground. It clatters horribly against the pavement, and continues to ring with sad little noises as it rolls for a few moments.

“Martin,” Jon says, and there is a tapestry of emotion threaded through the word: annoyance, incredulity, discomfort, affection, trepidation. It’s truly impressive.

“No, no, you’re right.” Martin crosses his arms. “Thirties are far too young. You’ve really changed my outlook.”

Jon’s sigh is truly beleaguered. “It’s not the—”

“ _Don’t_ say it’s not the same,” Martin groans.

“It’s not,” Jon grumbles, and then gets out of the car. His footsteps round the bonnet, and there’s a scrape of metal as he picks up Martin’s cane. Martin reaches to take it, but Jon doesn’t release it, leaving their fingers curled next to each other on the grip.

“How about this,” Jon sighs. “I’ll use the cane—enthusiastically, even—if you make arrangements for yourself in the event that something happens to me.”

Martin outright snickers. He can’t help it. Jon’s hand tenses next to his, pulling slightly on the grip.

“Martin, I- I hardly think this is—”

“No, I’m not- I’m not laughing at you, Jon. I promise.” Still chuckling, Martin properly takes back his cane. “It’s just- I talked to Alba about it. Just now. I told her that I might need, um, support? If things go wrong? She was very understanding. Even, uh, offered me her spare room if I ever need it, so.”

“Oh,” says Jon.

“Yeah.”

He sighs. “Shit.”

“That,” Martin tuts, “is not very enthusiastic.”

Jon grumbles as he shuts the passenger door. Martin falls against his seat with a huff, but he feels a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It’s a start.

* * *

On day forty of living in the Archives, Martin was actually getting comfortable.

He had acquisitioned the shitty pillows from the breakroom couch to shore up the cot, found an extension cord long enough to actually have his new phone within reach while it charged overnight, and was now managing to sleep three or four interrupted hours between his fits of worm-addled paranoia. He’d even finished a few of his more stubborn poems. It wasn’t an ideal situation, certainly, but it was a hell of a lot better than lying on his kitchen floor, thinking about how his last meal would be a third of a can of peaches, and that no one was going to notice or care that he died. This felt… not sustainable, but livable, at least. He could work with it.

Of course, about two hours after he had that thought, the muscles in his lower half seized so sharply that he had to choke back tears. The cramps treated him to that throbbing sort of pain, the kind that was just barely tolerable until it _really wasn’t_ , leading him to believe the abdominal and pelvic regions of his body were conspiring to kill him. It was all he could do for the next long while to curl on his side, wrap his arms around himself, and indulge in the occasional whimper. The whining was an embarrassing placebo, but all he had in that moment.

“Fucking _perfect_ ,” he hissed.

His hormone prescription was supposed to have been refilled at some point over the thirteen days he spent certain he’d die a wormy death. As his most recent shot of T drifted further into the past, the knowledge had crept up on him that something like this was inevitable. But his pharmacy was in Stockwell, and he could barely leave this room without choking on paranoia, nevermind returning to the part of town where he’d almost died. Given the constant stress, the poor sleeping accommodations, and the terrible diet of takeaway and vending machine snacks… he never really had a chance.

So, this was how he came to be sitting on his cot late the next evening, cradling Sasha’s heating pad to his miserable abdomen, dozing in and out as he tried desperately to read the statement in his hand. He kept getting to the bottom of the page, realizing he had no idea what he’d just read, and beginning again at the top. It probably didn’t help that most of the overhead lights were off, but the dimness was soothing, and god, he was so tired...

“Martin. May I come in?”

“Yeah,” Martin mumbled on reflex. Then the door opened, and he jerked fully awake.

Jon stood in the doorway, his reedy frame backlit by the Archive’s jaundiced fluorescents. He grimaced, then reached inside and flipped the whole row of lightswitches with a single swipe.

Martin flinched against the light and dropped the report. He dared not pick it up. He sat there, frozen, hyper-aware of the image he presented: the heating pad pressed against his lower stomach, the package of an entirely different sort of pad peeking halfway out from under his cot, the honest-to-god mostly-finished sleeve of chocolate biscuits sitting by his thigh. Jon’s eyes swept across the scene in that way of his, lingering no longer than was polite and yet leaving Martin with his skin prickling as if he stood guilty before a jury.

“Martin,” Jon said by way of greeting, and walked directly into the stacks.

“Jon.” Martin’s voice came out thin, and he clenched his eyes shut for a moment before realising that he would rather Jon not see him hiding behind his own eyelids.

Martin was not out to Jon. This wasn't necessarily by design, just that Martin had been on T for years before they met, and between that and his exceptional height, people generally didn’t clock him. While Martin wasn’t really inclined to closet himself, he’d never felt particularly interested in testing Jon’s approval of him in any unnecessary way, and thus hadn’t brought it up. Besides, not having to concern himself with the gender politics of the office left him with far more energy to worry about being found out for his CV.

The current situation made the CV nightmare scenario look like a pleasant daydream. He had just outed himself to his boss, who was currently the only thing standing between him and worm hell—him and homelessness, frankly, because he couldn't go back to his flat. It was like a secondary school stress dream. All he needed was for Jon to hand him an exam in Greek, and then ask him why he wasn’t wearing any pants.

God, why was he thinking about being naked in front of Jon? That was literally the last thing he wanted at this moment. He grimaced against a fresh wave of nausea.

“You look wretched.”

Martin snapped to attention, and found Jon standing near the door, gripping a large file box. He met Martin’s eyes with unnecessary intensity. “I have paracetamol in my office, if you’d like.”

It took Martin a moment to process the offer housed in the clipped, stern words. “Oh,” he said faintly.

“I keep it for - I get the occasional migraine. But it would work just as well for cramps.”

“Um, thanks? I’ve got my own, but, um- yeah, thanks.”

Jon’s resting frown became an active one. “Yes, well.” He hefted the box a little higher, and lifted his chin with it. “Feel better, Martin.” He lurched to the side to hit all of the lights with his elbow, leaving the room in gentle darkness. “And do get some rest. I don’t want to see you dead on your feet in the morning.” With that, he jerked the door clumsily open, and left.

Martin’s heart pounded long after the clunk of the latch. His chest clenched with the same feeling that had overcome him when Jon offered to let him stay in the archives: fondness, strangled by shock. Jon had just- he’d just offered help, as if it were the only logical thing, as if reacting any other way had never occurred to him. Martin might have even said that Jon was possessed of a secret kindness, and he had just been lucky enough to glimpse it.

“Don’t be stupid,” he mumbled as he lay back on the cot, blinking at the ceiling. “You can’t go- go _balmy_ for him every time he meets the lowest bar of human decency.”

Still, he drifted off thinking of Jon’s eyes, and how those last moments under them had not been so bad.

* * *

When Martin finally opens his eyes again, he expects a bit more fanfare.

Sure, it’s nice to be able to actually move his eyelids. It’s a relief, too, for the single stitch binding each eye to fall away, bringing an end to the irritation and occasional sharp pain of the dissolution process. But, in the end, it changes very little. Except—

“How does it look?”

Martin leans in the doorway of the en suite, wringing a damp flannel in his hands. He’s just taken the conformers out and cleaned them; he was afraid he would have the same aversion to inserting them as he had when he tried contacts, but apparently the lack of actual eyeball neutralised that particular issue. Now his eyelids slide comfortably over the clear plastic disks, and he finds himself unable to stop chasing the novelty of blinking despite the fatigue of the muscles involved.

Springs creak, then floorboard, as Jon steps off the bed and approaches him. He takes Martin’s face in his hands and tilts it down with a thoughtful hum. Martin’s foolish heart flutters in the interim, driven to distraction by the slight, gentle strokes of Jon’s fingertips over his cheeks.

“I think you look very- hm, very handsome,” Jon says after a moment, which all but knocks the wind out of Martin.

He recovers, and takes Jon’s hands from his face with a chuckle. “Okay, well, thanks, but I actually meant- you said you’d describe it to me? When the stitches came out?”

“Oh!” Jon withdraws his hands and huffs a sheepish noise. “Right. Um. Well, it’s just… pink in there, mostly. Tissue looks healthy. Your eyelids are a bit, ah, droopy? Not terribly so. Like you looked nearly every morning when you came in for work.” His voice takes on the quality of a grin. “Rather a sweet look on you, actually.”

Martin makes a very high, very embarrassing sound, and covers his face. “Is this what this relationship is going to be like?”

“Well, if you’re going to fish for compliments—”

“I literally just asked you to describe me!” When Jon doesn’t reply, Martin’s ears go hot. “Oh, come on.”

“Walked into that one, I’m afraid.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“Yes, quite.”

And then they kiss, and kiss again, and keep kissing until Martin loses track of time.

He’s beginning to realise that being with Jon is a lot like opening his eyes again: it seems like it should be a colossal milestone, some world-flipping shift, but really, it changes very little. They still smile through habitual bickering. They slip sometimes into uncomfortable silences when one or both of them falters beneath the weight of all that has happened, all that might still happen. Jon sighs loudly when his meal alarm pings, but dutifully puts aside whatever he’s doing and begins to peruse the kitchen. Martin has to remind himself that he’s extant, noticed, wanted. When one offers his hand, the other takes it without question. All of this is, perhaps, evidence that they’ve spent the last week—nevermind the last two years—being disgustingly oblivious. Martin tries to take it as a sign that they’re well-suited to each other.

Some things have changed, of course. The last few days’ _I love yous_ still linger thick in the air, phantasmic until Jon leans into Martin and kisses his shoulder, or lays a nearly reverent hand on his breastbone, and makes his love corporeal, unavoidable. Apparently, it is only a lack of permission that has kept Jon from touching Martin constantly since they got here. Now that he doesn’t need excuses, he initiates nearly continuous contact, everything from the casual brush of limbs to achingly tender embraces. At first Martin thinks the tactility is to accommodate his blindness. He finds it sweet, if a little overbearing. Quickly, however, he realises that Jon is just… like that.

As an epiphany, “Jon Sims is a deeply affectionate and touchy-feely person” should be positive, perhaps even funny. But this is the man that Martin has seen growing ever thornier over the years, distancing himself at greater and greater intervals from his friends, few though they’ve been, even as his skin has grown livid with testament to his multiplying enemies. That this man, this isolated, frightened, wounded man, longs by his very nature to share gentle touches, to hold and be held—it hurts to think of.

So, even though Jon is a little clingy, perhaps a bit _much_ after Martin’s months of isolation, he wants to give him this. He would give Jon the world, if he could. Letting Jon have a few hours in his arms is the least he can do.

“Are you with me?” comes Jon’s voice, soft as his hand on Martin’s neck.

Martin returns to the moment, where Jon has him against the bedroom wall, touching him like something fragile. Helplessly Martin smiles, and lifts his hands from where they’ve fallen at his sides to circle Jon’s shoulders.

“Yeah, sorry. Thinking.”

Jon sweeps a thumb over Martin’s eyebrow. “About?”

“Beach Sex Blue nail lacquer.”

Air breaks across Martin’s throat, a startled snort of laughter as Jon pushes out of Martin’s arms. “God, I hoped you’d forgotten.”

“Of course not,” Martin says, although he had until this very moment. Odd, the things that jump to a man’s mind when he’s trying to decide whether he should admit to thinking about his boyfriend’s trauma while he was supposed to be kissing said boyfriend. “You know, I think I still owe you a coat or two.”

“Did I actually agree to that?”

“Who can remember?” Martin smirks and lifts off the wall. “Where did it end up, anyway?”

“Who can remember,” Jon deadpans. At that, Martin shakes out the still-damp, quite-cold flannel in his hand, and tosses it at Jon’s face. Jon sputters impressively: target confirmed. “Martin!”

Martin lifts his brow in perfect innocence. “What?” He gasps, lifting a theatrical hand to his mouth. “Oh, no, did I hit you, Jon? Clumsy me, I can’t believe—”

“Shut up,” Jon says with far too much fondness, and slaps the cloth onto Martin’s neck, shocking a yelp out of him. “Oh, no,” he drawls, vowels stretched to their limit, “have I struck you, Martin? Did I accost you with this horrid rag, entirely by accident?”

With a playful shove to Jon’s shoulders, Martin pushes past him. “You did, but I’ll forgive you if you let me paint your nails.”

Jon sighs, the epitome of longsuffering. “If I must.”

Eventually, Jon does warm to the idea. Martin suspects it’s something to do with the several uninterrupted minutes of Jon getting to lay his slender hand against the breadth of Martin’s palm, and the indulgent consideration with which Martin touches every groove and curve of Jon’s fingers. All things being equal, he thinks he does a decent enough job with the lacquer. When he proclaims this, Jon hums a low, contrary noise.

“No, I’ve done quite well,” Martin says, and pats the back of Jon’s hand. “Do mine?”

He gets why Jon seemed to enjoy it so much; even after their generally excessive amount of hand-holding, there’s something intimate about letting himself be held firm, feeling the painstaking applications of the brush, knowing that Jon is doing this for no reason other than that he wants to. It means something, that Jon noticed that Martin lost something of himself, that Martin brushed that loss off as small and inconsequential, but now Jon is here, returning it to him in gentle touches and careful strokes. It hits Martin so hard that a few tears begin to sneak along the line of his nose by the time Jon reaches his second hand.

“Oh,” Jon breathes, and sweeps his thumb over the side of Martin’s hand. “Are- are you alright?”

Teardrops arc hard around the sides of Martin’s face as he smiles, lips trembling, cheeks straining. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I’m- yeah. It’s stupid.”

“Never,” Jon murmurs, and squeezes Martin’s hand. “Do you- would you like to tell me about it?”

The bitterness that once came with that question, Martin’s frustration with Jon’s past caginess, pales utterly in the encompassing warmth of how much Jon has grown, how much he’s changed, just how wholly he’s opened himself to reach this point. Martin laughs with it, breathy and wet.

“Could you just- would you come here?” Martin opens his arms, and Jon climbs into his lap without a moment’s hesitation. He tips his forehead against Martin’s, and there they sit, their weight dipping the edge of the old mattress, their skin striped in bands of warmth falling from the sun-heated windows. Jon holds Martin’s face gently, so gently, and Martin feels like he thinks children are supposed to feel when they know that they’re safe.

He slides a hand up the back of Jon’s shirt, seeking the assurance of skin. Jon stiffens. Martin stills. “Should I not—?”

“It’s alright,” Jon says, smile audible. “You’re going to get lacquer everywhere.”

“It’s my shirt,” Martin reminds him, and presses a kiss to his nose.

Jon huffs, maybe a laugh. His hands ease down Martin’s neck and slip beneath the straps of his undershirt, shuffling them off his shoulders. He begins to work his fingers into the flesh there, in what it takes Martin a moment to recognise as a massage.

“Oh,” he says, very softly.

Jon’s hands still. “Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” Martin sighs, and gives Jon a smile for reassurance. “Um. Should we…” His capacity for speech leaves him at a particularly insistent press of Jon’s palms into his traps. He hums. “Should we talk about- boundaries? You know, physically? Just so we’re not… mm… constantly worrying we’ve crossed them?”

“That’s probably wise,” Jon murmurs. He’s quiet for a moment, working gently at Martin’s shoulders, before he drops his hands. His fingers spread lightly over Martin’s pecs, catching the neckline of his shirt. “I, uh, I, I suppose my main boundary is… I don’t like anything overtly sexual. So. Nothing below the belt, or nipples, um, that sort of thing. And, uh, no tongue when kissing, as you know. Other than that, I do generally like to be touched.”

Martin smiles and drags his fingertips feather-light over Jon’s ribs, eeking out a gasp. “Oh? Could’ve fooled me.”

“Martin,” Jon says, in a pale imitation of his once-venomous reproach.

“Sorry,” Martin chuckles. “I’m listening.” He settles hands firmly against Jon’s lower back, running his thumbs around the crags of his spine. “Go on.”

“I, uh, I mean, that’s really it. Well, as far as, hm, receiving, I suppose. In terms of what I’m comfortable giving, it’s rather the same? Although, if,” he coughs lightly, “if you, um, if you ever wanted to- to take care of yourself while I’m around, as long as I’m not directly involved, that’s- that’s fine. I don’t mind—” he breaks off with a small, almost grim laugh. “I don’t mind watching.”

“Real shock,” Martin says faintly, a bit overwhelmed by the reality of the conversation he’s asked for. “Jon, you- when you say ‘fine,’ that doesn’t sound very... enthusiastic? I- I don’t know if I would even be interested in that, to be clear. But things shouldn’t be on the table if you’re lukewarm on them.”

“Ah, ‘fine’ is not- accurate? I, uh, I just don’t really- get into it, you know? It’s not like I’m never,” and he seems to struggle to say this, fingers fluttering over Martin’s chest, “turned on, it’s just- if I am, it’s. Uncomfortable. Embarrassing, I- I suppose. Personal. But if my partner is- is into it, and if they’re comfortable, I want them to have that option. And I,” he clears his throat, “I- I mean, it’s gratifying to know that someone feels that way about me, even if I wouldn’t want them to actually act on it.” He chuckles a bit shakily. “It can be romantic, you know? Like- ah, like I cooked their favorite meal for them, and it’s not something I like, but they love it and now I’m getting to watch them enjoy my cooking.”

Martin’s smile goes stupid-wide. He has been listening, really, but— “You _are_ a snack.”

Jon snorts and bats him lightly. “Hard boundary on being called that, thank you.” Their laughs mingle into a smiling, inexpert kiss. When Jon draws back, he rests his forehead on Martin’s, and his voice sobers a bit. “What about you?”

“Oh. Um, honestly, everything you mentioned sounds good for me, too, so.” He shrugs.

A low, thoughtful sound buzzes from Jon’s throat. “Really?”

“I mean, yeah? Uh, normally there’s a bit of a complicated conversation about some, you know, trans stuff for me, but that’s all below-the-belt, so nothing you need to worry about.”

Jon’s hands falter. “Oh. I should have asked, your chest—”

“My chest is fine,” Martin says easily, and covers Jon’s hands with his own, pressing them lightly over his sternum. Jon’s right hand splays, settling against the steadiness of his heartbeat. “I would have said something if it wasn’t.”

“Ah, I- I suppose you would have.” They hang there for a moment, hands on hands on chest, a shimmering soap-bubble intimacy that Martin is afraid to breathe and break.

Of course, this is when Jon’s meal alarm goes off, startling them both and resulting in Jon’s chin impacting Martin’s forehead.

“Oh, good lord,” Jon snaps, sliding halfway off Martin’s lap to dig in his pocket.

Martin laughs, holding his head with one hand and the leg still slung over him with the other. “Why in the world haven’t you changed that? There are, like, a hundred less abrasive tones.”

“This one reminds me of you,” Jon says primly, and silences the shrill alarm.

Martin scoffs, unintentionally quite near the grating pitch of the offending tone. “Now I’m hurt.”

Chuckling, Jon swings his leg off of Martin and stands. He rustles a bit; Martin imagines him straightening himself, fixing the lacquer-smeared hem of his stolen jumper.

“My apologies,” Jon says, and presses a kiss just north of the offended portion of Martin’s forehead. “You should ice that while I get dinner started.”

Though his first impulse is to insist that he’s fine, Martin knows that he’s more susceptible to headaches now, and figures there’s no harm in a bit of preventative medicine. “Alright.”

Shortly, Martin finds himself sitting at the table with a frozen bag of mixed summer vegetables wrapped in a tea towel and pressed against his forehead. In the kitchen, Jon’s footsteps underpin the lively pings and scrapes of utensils on bowl and pan. Softly, gradually, he begins to hum: a song Martin doesn’t know, but finds enchanting coming from Jon’s throat. Martin basks in it, and thinks that later he’ll remember this moment.

“You alright?” Jon asks at length. The care in his tone outweighs the worry.

“You know what?” Martin smiles, and closes his eyes because he can. “I really am.”

* * *

All told, he should have seen it coming.

The powers prefer seduction. To chip away, to melt down, to worm in. They delight in welcoming acolytes, be they aware of their induction or not.

But, of course, the fears are also hungry. Hunger does not wait forever.

It happens on a calm grey morning, during a rainstorm that’s hushed over the highlands all night. Martin stands just outside the front door, umbrella propped over his shoulder, enjoying the patter and the deep, refreshing scent of wet soil and flora. Birds twitter somewhere, though not their resident starlings. It’s cold as hell, but he’s come to revel in that a bit, recently. The nip of it at his nose and through his jeans reminds him of all the ways he’s human, of how good it will feel to sink into the blankets next to Jon later.

He still needs a minute, sometimes. He loves Jon, and he likes spending time with him, but there are only so many uninterrupted hours two people can spend together, especially when forms of entertainment are so limited. Not that the success of his most recent campaign to have Jon (grudgingly) help him write blackout poetry with a few of Daisy’s vapid pulp novels hasn’t been fun; it has. It can all just get… suffocating, sometimes.

He identified that as a very Lonely thought, the first time he had it. He shared it with Jon, because his therapist told him to reach out if he thinks he’s moving into an isolated place.

Jon set his hand on Martin’s knee, as if ready to grip him tight if he dropped suddenly into Forsaken. Then a moment passed, and Jon sighed.

“No, that’s… that’s probably normal.” He laughed, sharp with self-deprecation. “I know I’m a bit, uh- clingy.”

“It’s not you,” Martin assured him gently, covering his hand. “It’s cabin fever, mainly. And I… I do genuinely like to be by myself, sometimes. I think I can learn how to do that in a healthy way, if I try.”

Jon settled into a plaintitive quiet, then said, “Don’t go far?”

Martin’s heart swelled, and he pressed a kiss to Jon’s lips. “I won’t.”

True to his word, Martin has yet to venture farther than the front garden on one of his little sabbaticals. As much as he would do that just for Jon’s peace of mind, he also has no interest in being an invisible blind man lost in the middle of nowhere again. He’s just fine enjoying the fresh air and letting the sensations of nature wash over him. Practicing mindfulness, like a properly mentally healthy individual.

Just as he’s pondering which tea he’s going to put on when he gets in, and beginning to wonder whether he could convince Jon to get back in bed until lunch, the wind picks up suddenly. Rain slams into him at a nearly horizontal angle. He swears at the sudden onslaught, ducking immediately toward the front door.

When he feels the fog break across his ankles, he freezes. Slowly, teeth clenched, he slides one foot forward. The fog licks up his leg. He shouts and stumbles several steps back.

“Why won’t you _fuck off_ ,” he snaps at the bank of concentrated Loneliness between him and his home. “Jon!” He shouts, but the sound is blunted, and he knows instinctively that it doesn’t penetrate the fog. “Shit.”

He’s soaking by now; he tosses his umbrella away without bothering to close it and shifts his cane to his dominant hand, not sure what he’s planning to do, but needing the assurance of being ready. At that moment, the fog creeps over his shoes.

He flees the garden as it floods with isolation.

The last thing he wants to do is wander too far, but every time he tries to circle back towards the cabin, he feels the chill of Forsaken coming on, and he must press on into the wilderness to escape.

Mud starts to gum the soles of his trainers. The rain drenches him, making a cold weight of his coat. He’s beginning to shiver a bit, teeth clenched against the wind that he no longer finds romantically bracing. Still, if he slows, the Lonely nips at his heels. So the fog drives him forward.

It’s Martin’s cane that finally stops him. It passes across the ground before him, and the vibration is _wrong_. He halts. He sweeps again. It’s as if something muffles feeling, itself, distorting the information before it can reach his hand.

“Hello?” he calls, and the sound does not die this time; it echoes before him into a place that is vast, and empty, and _hungry_. Instinctively, he steps back. A great, rolling sound like wind, like waves, builds up before him, and he does not decide to turn and run so much as he just is, suddenly, running.

He blunders back through the fog that has followed him; if it takes him, fine, but at least it’s not _that_ , too large, and too powerful, and too much like—

Too much like it’s calling him home.

But that’s not his home, and he knows that, he _knows_ that. His home is small, and panelled in rough wood, and has munitions hidden in the false bottoms of the cabinets, and it is a home because Jon is there, and Martin will not let that go.

His legs cramp and his side catches, lungs burning as he sucks cold air. He was never a runner, and he’s less-so now, stumbling, scraping up his hands as he catches himself from near-fall after near-fall, going too fast to use his cane. He thinks he recognises landmarks in the heights of the grass and the particular ways the earth rises and falls under his feet, but at this speed, really, he has no fucking clue if he’s headed back to the road or deeper into the highlands.

Just as he’s becoming sure that he isn’t getting enough oxygen, his feet catch a sudden incline, and he crashes forward onto the road.

“Thank christ,” he gasps, even as he’s spitting out gravel, wincing at the pebble-jagged mud crushing into his already-scuffed hands. He crawls forward, feeling across the ground for his cane. When he finds it, he grips it tight to himself like a talisman, crouching in the mud, heaving. He tries to just breathe for a moment, head hung, feeling raindrops run channels along the curves of his face, converging in little waterfalls spewed off the tip of his nose and down his chin.

Then he hears it again: infinite, empty, roaring. That place- it’s following.

“Fuck,” he wheezes, even as he scrambles back to his feet. At least he knows that if he keeps running, the road will take him home.

After a few dozen meters, he hears a muffled sound ahead. As he gets closer, it sharpens into a desperate, “Martin!”

Relief flushes through Martin at the sound of Jon’s voice, so potent that he almost drops to his knees. This respite snuffs out almost instantly, displaced by desperation as he realises that Jon might not be able to run. If Martin escapes the Lonely only to have Jon devoured by it—no. Fuck that. He can hear Jon’s footsteps now. He makes his decision.

“Martin! Thank god! You—“

“Get down!” They collide. Martin comes down on his knees in the unforgiving gravel, clutching Jon by the shoulder, and folds himself over him as the crash of the forever empty rumbles closer. He buries his face in Jon’s back just as the fog slams over them. No- no, not over. Around. It splits and flows, sending peels of ice like angry snake-strikes over Martin’s edges, hungry but unable to truly touch him, because he is not lonely, and now he is not alone.

Forsaken passes, and they remain in each others’ arms.

They stay huddled on the ground for a few breathless, trembling minutes before Jon’s soft grunt of pain reminds Martin that they’re both soaking wet, and that he has a body, and that the body he has is fucking sore. He stands, and Jon comes up with him, hands twisted into Martin’s jumper. They try to move, and Jon’s leg buckles under him. He doesn’t seem to have his cane with him (of course not; why make things easier on himself?) and Martin winces imagining how far Jon has walked on that knee. Martin snakes an arm around him and pulls him to his side, half to help and half just to feel him, to remind himself that it didn’t take anyone, that they’re both still here.

They make it back home. When Martin closes the door, they both fall against it.

“I think,” Jon says, voice very thin, “I need a statement.” He’s emitting that acrid, spine-prickling sensation, the one that Martin’s equally sure he can hear and taste.

Martin nods. “Yeah. Y-you should- yeah.”

Jon’s face presses into Martin’s chest. His breaths come hot and fast. “I- I don’t want you to be- be by yourself.”

Martin strokes the back of Jon’s head, mussing his already-limp bun. “I don’t think it can get in while we’re here together.” He tightens his arms around him. “It’s not welcome here.”

He can practically hear Jon wrestling with himself, wanting Martin in the room while he reads his statement, but knowing that Martin hates the statements. Even free of the Eye’s power, that hasn’t changed. Finally, he sighs.

“Fine. But if- if you feel anything strange, come to me, alright? I can’t... I can’t.”

“I know,” Martin whispers. “I won’t leave you, Jon. I’m here.”

Reluctantly, fingers trailing, Jon parts from his side. Martin gathers back the impulse to pull him close, give him another hug. That would only make it worse. Jon needs to eat.

Once the bedroom latch clicks shut, Martin pries himself off the front door. He toes off his muddy shoes, peels away his drenched socks, and drops his coat on the floor. Then he sets aside his cane and goes almost mechanically to the kitchen. Kettle. Mugs. Sugar. Milk. Teabags: camomile? They don’t have any honey, but it’s the only blend without caffeine, so they’ll have to make do. Neither of them need extra adrenaline right now. Martin can still feel his heartbeat in his throat and fingertips, and his hands tremble with the force of his heavy breathing as he puts the kettle on. It’s okay, he reminds himself. He’s still here. Jon’s still here. Everything is going to be—

A crash from the bedroom.

Martin barely thinks to flick off the gas before he rushes down the hall. He throws open the bedroom door.

Everything is wrong.

The air is so thick that his legs slow when he plunges into the room. He opens his mouth to speak, but his tongue is stayed by the weight of foul energy in the atmosphere. He manages another step, but his bare foot comes down on a shard of something shattered. His shout only makes it halfway up his throat before it gargles and dies.

From the bed, Jon makes a sound, less than a word, fraught and frantic. He struggles, crumpling fabric and creaking mattress. Pained sounds tear through him. Paper crinkles, loud as thunder cracks.

Martin wants to go to him. He cannot move. Wants to call to him. Cannot speak.

He knows the moment Jon loses. The air thins suddenly, horribly. Static rushes into the vacuum, a physical sensation on Martin’s skin, flooding over gooseflesh and weaving between on-end hairs.

The words scrape over every quaking thread of Jon’s throat, drawing out the full power of his voice:

“Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist. Statement begins.”

And Martin can only listen.

It should probably be harder than it is to accept that Elias Bouchard is Jonah Magnus. As it is, the revelation feels secondary to the dread and fury sweeping through Martin’s immobile body. He doesn’t care what the motherfucker’s name is; for the things he’s saying, the things he’s _using Jon to say_ , Martin wishes he’d let Melanie kill him. Hell, maybe he can’t be killed, because he’s apparently been alive for centuries, but at least it would have hurt.

But then. But then.

“You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.”

Martin recalls the uneven planes of Jon’s ribs beneath his fingers, every scar, every hitching breath wrung from him by the panic attacks, the trauma crouching in wait beneath every neuron, every nerve. Worms and knives and scalpels and—

“Do you see where I’m going, Jon?”

God, oh, god.

Jonah Magnus recounts each horror, each attack, each violation, forcing Jon to narrate his manipulation like a corpse reviewing its own autopsy.

“Then all that remained was the Lonely.”

Martin goes cold.

“Peter knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager. If he could convince one of my employees to willingly join the Lonely, I would give him the Institute, the Panopticon, all of it. I knew the prize would be too great a temptation for him to resist. You know, I even let him pick the victim? Of course, there was never any doubt as to who he would choose.

“What is it about _Martin_ , of all people? What was it you said? ‘Unlikely to contribute anything but delays’? I must say, I’ve become quite familiar with the feeling. His presence has made you much more… impulsive than I anticipated. Peter, too, is very put-out about losing his lonely little watcher. Fortunately, his patron does not give up so easily.

“But you know that, don’t you, Jon? By now, the Lonely has taken Martin, and you’ve followed him into its realm. Did you get him back, I wonder? I suppose it would only be fair if you did, but I must admit, the success of your little elopement is of no interest to me. All that matters now is that you are marked.”

No. _No_.

“Don’t worry, Jon. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made. Now.” Laughter ripples through the room, cruel and perverse and not Jon’s at all. “Repeat after me.”

Jon begins to chant.

And Martin feels it.

“Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that _crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!_ ”

A new world thrums at the threshold, mere molecules beneath the surface of reality.

“ _ **Come to us!**_ ”

Martin thinks, _Oh, god, I can’t even tell him goodbye,_ and then Jon’s voice crescendos, and Martin can’t think at all.

* * *

The Archivist’s voice rises past reality,

piercing the esoteric,

a beacon,

a maypole,

whose dancers circle deeper and deeper in.

They are called

Forever Deep Below Creation,

The Falling Titan,

The Terrible Change,

The Forever Blind,

The Crawling Rot,

The Blackened Earth,

The Mother,

It Lies,

Viscera,

Slaughter,

Hunt,

and The Coming End That Waits For All And Cannot Be Ignored.

It is fitting, in a way, that it is

The One Alone

which finds no purchase in the Archivist’s voice, no file-folder scar waiting carved into the Archive, no place to pour its essence,

which stays behind,

which draws the rest toward its emptiness,

and snaps them into its gravity

before the Ceaseless Watcher can Open its Eye.

* * *

Jonah Magnus lurches out of his easy chair. He screams loud enough to rattle the windows of his study, then throws his glass of brandy against the wall. He doesn’t hear it shatter over the ringing in his ears.

* * *

Jon does not speak for hours.

He shakes in Martin’s arms, so hard that Martin fears seizure. He cradles Jon between his crossed legs like Jon once did for him, slim back to broad chest, and strokes his hair, and rubs his cheeks, and murmurs to him, _It’s okay, it’s okay, nothing happened, we’re safe, you’re safe, I’m here, I’m here, Jon, I’m here_ until he doesn’t even know what he’s saying.

Martin’s eyelids sting, left raw and puffy now they’re wrung of tears. Jon has not cried. Martin wishes he would. Sobbing, wailing, even screaming would worry him less than this shuddering silence. He holds Jon tighter, and tucks his face into a sharp, shaking shoulder, and understands for a moment why people grow desperate enough to pray to cruel, ravenous gods.

Lumpy rivulets of blood stick in thin stripes to the soles of his feet. In his rush to get to Jon when the force lifted from the room, Martin stepped on several more shards. As far as he can figure, Jon tried to fight when he realised what the statement was, and managed to knock the lamp off the bedside table. Martin wonders if Jon was trying to get his attention specifically, or if it was just a byproduct of his panic. It doesn’t really matter, he supposes. It’s not like his presence could have done anything. Not like it _did_ do anything.

Finally, finally, Jon speaks. It’s hardly a rasp. “I-I-I need to- to do it n-now.”

Martin’s brow furrows. Then he understands. Fresh tears surge, and he clutches Jon close. “Christ. Jon, you can’t- not right now.”

“Y-yes, _right now_.” His nails sink into Martin’s arms. “I almost- I could have—”

“You didn’t.”

“I could. I can’t- I-I-I can’t keep existing. Not like- not like this.”

Martin presses his face into Jon’s hair, into the scent of fear-soured sweat and friction-hot magnetic tape and the shampoo that they share. “Jesus, Jon.”

“I’m- I’m just what he made me.” Jon’s breath disturbs the hair on Martin’s arm, sends goosebumps fluttering up to his shoulder.

“Don’t be fucking daft,” Martin chokes, and kisses Jon’s head, his temple, his head again. “You’re you. You’re you, and I- I love you, and I’ll be right next to you until we can cut you off from the eye, but- christ, Jon, you can’t do it right now. It- it wouldn't even _work_ , you shaking like this.”

Through his full-body tremor, Jon can’t argue that last point. “To- today, then,” he whispers after a moment.

Tomorrow, Martin wants to say, but he knows that Jon is right. God knows where Elias- Jonah? - _fuck_ \- is, or what else he has planned. Martin knows that the man he holds is a time bomb, his stress-bent bones laced with red wire, and that cutting any one of them could remake the world in the image of unthinkable terror.

Martin wants to kill Jonah Magnus. He wants to kill him with his bare hands.

Against his neck, Jon whimpers. Martin lets the thoughts of vengeance slip through his fingers, because he can’t hold them and Jon at the same time.

“Tonight,” he says finally, and feels Jon go limp, hears a broken noise of relief.

“Th-thank you, Martin.”

When Jon finally unfolds from Martin’s arms, it’s jerkily and with small gasps of pain. Between the running, the stress, the shaking, and sitting still for hours, Martin doesn’t feel great, either, but he knows it must be worse for Jon. Martin takes his arm to steady him as he stands, and he can feel Jon leaning a significant amount of his weight into the support.

“Oh- good lord,” Jon whispers. “Your feet.”

“I’m fine,” Martin says, too choked and too quickly.

“Martin, honestly.” The edge of annoyance in Jon’s tone floods Martin with assurance. It’s the first time Jon has sounded like himself since- well. Since. “Let me- I’ll get the first aid kit.” Jon limps across the room, then his cane joins the rhythm of his steps. It relieves Martin so much that he could weep, if he had tears to spare. Jon returns a moment later, sets the box on the bed, and sits with a groan of effort next to Martin. “Feet up,” he says, and Martin obliges.

It says a lot about this day that having shards of glass removed from his feet doesn’t rank on the list of bad things that have happened to Martin today.

Once Martin’s wounds—mostly shallow, not as painful as he feared—are cleaned and bandaged, Jon stands again and says he’ll sweep the floor. Martin protests on reflex, but given the state of his feet, doesn’t get very far.

“You need to rest,” he says over the multi-toned scrape of glass and old broom bristles.

“I’ve sat around enough today,” Jon grumbles.

“Having an hours-long panic attack isn’t sitting around,” Martin says, perhaps a bit harshly.

Jon’s sweeping stills for a moment, then continues with renewed force. “We should just do it now.”

Martin wants to pull out his hair. “We just agreed we’d wait until tonight! You need to give your body, just, like, one minute, Jon! Please.” _For me_ , he wants to say, but doesn’t. Obvious a manipulation as it is, Jon would probably still fold beneath it, and it wouldn’t be right, or fair.

Jon huffs a low noise of frustration. “What do you want me to do, Martin? Just - just sit around for hours, _anticipating_ it? I-I- I can’t. I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.”

Sighing, Martin rests his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands. His feet twinge. “I guess it was stupid to suggest you relax.”

Jon scoffs, bitter. “You have met me, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Martin grumbles. “Look, just- didn’t your doctor tell you to soak in epsom salts for the pain? Maybe you should just- just run a hot bath, give yourself a minute. I’ve got a bunch of audiobooks downloaded, so you wouldn’t have to, you know, be alone with your thoughts.”

The glass clatters over the plastic of the dust pan. Jon grunts as he presumably stands from crouching.

“That… does actually sound a bit tempting.”

Martin breathes out a very unsubtle sigh. “Okay. Good, good.” He flops backwards on the bed. Jon may feel like rest is a waste of time, but Martin could sleep for days, right now.

A few minutes later, the pipes groan and the water in the ensuite begins to run. Martin is actually beginning to drift when he feels gentle fingertips on his knee. He lifts up on his elbows.

“Jon? You alright?”

“I don’t want to be alone,” Jon says, soft.

Martin sits up fully. “Oh- oh, Jon, you don’t have to be. Of course not. I can sit with you, if you like?” He laughs weakly and waves his hand in front of his own face. “Privacy’s not even an issue.”

Jon huffs a small, amused sound. “I, uh, I had… I had hoped you might join me, a-actually?”

“Oh. Oh! Like—?”

“Yes.”

Martin’s ears burn. He can feel his pulse in his throat. “Really?”

Jon’s hand lifts from Martin’s knee, and settles again on the side of his face. “Really. I- I want to see you. I want to remember.”

Martin’s throat goes horribly tight. “Oh.”

“That’s- is that alright?”

“Yes, yeah, it’s. It’s good.” He swallows, quite loudly. “Just to be clear, you mean like- in the bath? Like, full on, uh—”

“Undressed?” Jon suggests, softly, though not so much that Martin can’t hear his smile. “Yes. Or-! Or whatever level of undress feels best for you.” He chuckles, shaky and awkward. “You- you don’t have to. I, uh, I- I know it’s an- an odd request, so—”

“It’s not,” Martin says, shaking his head. “No, it’s- yeah. I’d love to, Jon.”

Steam hangs thick in the bathroom. Martin tries not to think about how much it feels like the fog. He pulls his jumper over his head—still soggy from earlier, jesus—and tosses it at the corner where their dirty clothes have been accumulating in the absence of a hamper. Then he reaches for the hem of his undershirt, and he falters.

This is stupid. It’s stupid, right? Jon can’t be under any illusions about what Martin looks like under his clothes, and in any case, he seems to like Martin’s body. Hell, Martin likes his own body. Or he did when he didn’t have anyone trying to look at it. Now, years-old anxieties have his hands locking, little tingles of adrenaline sparkling through his fingertips.

“Martin,” Jon says, very low, very gentle.

Martin becomes abruptly aware of how hot his face feels. “Um, s-sorry. Sorry. I just—”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, no, I want to, I’m just- I- I don’t know—”

“Here.” Jon’s hands cover Martin’s, and for a moment, Martin thinks he’s going to help the shirt over his head, and his gut clenches at the thought. Instead, Jon draws Martin’s hands to the row of buttons on his own crumpled dress shirt. Martin’s mind loses a few moments to fuzzy awe.

“Oh,” he whispers. Carefully, he undoes the first button. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Jon breathes.

So, in intervals, in buttons, Martin lays Jon bare.

It’s not as if he hasn’t seen Jon without a shirt before, or put his hands on the scar-littered skin of his torso. But there’s something to the fact that Jon trusts him with this, that he stands still and breathes calmly and submits to simple animal exposure, just because he noticed Martin was nervous. His heart aches already; the spate of love and gratitude filling his chest threatens to drown him.

By the time Jon’s shirt hangs undone, Martin’s hands tremble in the ever slightest. He eases them across the severity of Jon’s collarbones, up over his chronically tense trapezius muscles, and gently shucks the shirt away. It crumples against the tile. Finally, he cradles Jon’s face.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Jon covers one of Martin’s hands with his own and tilts into the pressure of it, his sigh sending gooseflesh fluttering up the bellies of Martin’s arms. The bolt of his jaw flexes beneath Martin’s palm, then he inhales, small, sharp. The barest beginning of a word leaves him, but then he says nothing. Instead, he kisses Martin’s heartline.

Martin sighs. “The water’s going to get cold,” he says without conviction.

“You’re probably right.” Jon pulls away. There’s the whisper of a zip, then the stiff shuffle of jeans being rucked down.

 _Fuck it_ , Martin thinks, and takes off his shirt. Jon doesn’t say anything. It’s blessedly anti-climactic.

Oddly, Martin has very little trouble dropping his trousers and sliding off his boxers. In the past, he’s often been nervous about revealing himself to his partners in this way. It’s not that he’s had any terrible experiences, or that it brings up much in the way of dysphoria. The weight of assumed expectations just bears so heavy on his back. To know that he will be seen at his most vulnerable, then asked for something, expected to partake in rituals he often feels just-left of understanding—it’s too much. But Jon. Jon doesn't want anything from him, doesn't even want to touch. It takes a lot of pressure off. He doesn’t have to worry about what Jon assumes, or expects, or thinks. All Jon wants is for him to be here. He can do that.

Martin gets in first. The water is so hot that it hurts for a moment, and his feet sting as the bandages go soaked, but he finds it very easy to recline against one end of the tub and tip his head over the porcelain rim. The itch of lingering mud begins to loosen from his hands.

“God, I think I needed this,” he sighs.

“Was this an elaborate ruse to get me to draw you a bath?” Martin can hear a smirk weasel through Jon's dry tone.

“Mm, long con. Ran away with you just for this.”

“Marks for commitment,” Jon says, then steps into the tub with two delicate splashes. Martin assumes he’s going to sit against the opposite end, to let their legs tangle like they do on the couch. Instead, Jon settles between Martin’s thighs and leans against him, back to chest, and Martin forgets several breaths.

“Christ,” Jon mumbles. “That _is_ amazing.”

Martin manages to squeeze a soft, “Yeah,” around his heart, which has floated into his throat. He hasn’t felt like this since the first time he held a boy’s hand.

With a twist of slick skin, Jon turns onto his side and loops an arm around Martin’s neck. “Are you alright?”

“Hah- yeah, I just, you’re, um. This is a lot?”

Jon lifts a bit, reducing their points of contact. “Too much?”

“No, no, not at all.” The returning drape of Jon’s weight brings Martin deeper into his body, anchoring pressure, like Jon always is. Taking a deep breath and initiative with it, Martin allows his hands to settle, natural as anything, around Jon’s waist. Jon breathes a low noise that turns Martin’s insides liquid. He could osmose into the water and die happy, probably.

They soak in silence for a bit. Martin lets his hands wander lazily, appreciating the planes of the man he loves, the hinges that hold him together, the angles where he’s eroded. He finds, when his hand drifts below jagged ribs, that Jon has a bit of give to his belly; a yielding beneath Martin’s fingers; an assurance that three square meals a day are actually helping. It isn’t much, but it’s better than the concavity he noticed when they first got here. It reminds him of when they first met, when Jon had a hint of muscle to his shoulders and no shadows beneath his cheekbones, when his scrawniness was just his body type and not a testament to relentless self-destruction.

Overcome by the progress, he rests his lips in Jon’s steam-damp hair and squeezes him tight. Jon’s answering hum resonates through Martin’s chest, plucking each rib, making timpani-strikes of his heartbeat. Slowly, with great weight, Jon sweeps his hand over Martin’s muscled shoulder, across his heart, along one of the prickly-numb scars cupping either side of his chest, into the coarse hair blanketing his stomach. His fingers linger there, a feather-light orbit of nails through fuzz. Martin will never forget the thrill that took him the first time he noticed his body hair thickening there, and Jon treats every pass of his hand through the thicket like he knows exactly what this part of Martin’s body means to him, how hard he’s worked to love it. After a moment, Jon’s hand flattens, simply rubbing at the softness of Martin’s belly, and that’s- yeah.

“Is this alright?” Jon asks; it’s gentle, genuine, but not without a hint of amusement. That’s fair enough, considering the heat flushed through Martin’s chest and face. He wonders if Jon can see the beading tears.

“Mm-hm,” he manages, just a bit squeaky.

“Good.” Jon kisses his chest, just at the height of his pec. “Christ, Martin, I’ve wasted so much time not looking at you.”

Martin closes his eyes, like that will save him. “Jon,” he breathes, punched out.

Apparently spurred by the way Martin is losing his goddamn mind, Jon runs his hands to Martin’s hips, just at the gathering of fat spilling over his beltline. He holds him there, tenderly, and his kisses drift up along Martin’s collarbone.

“Did you know,” Jon’s breath raises the tiny hairs beneath his lips, “that you have three thousand, two hundred and seventy one freckles on your body?”

Martin reels with that for a moment—because what the fuck, how do you just say that to someone—before realising, “Hang on, I thought you couldn’t know things about me anymore.”

Jon stills. “I, um.”

Martin sits up a bit, and Jon slides down his chest, reflexively squeezing Martin’s love handles for stability. “Jon Sims,” Martin says, the stress of the day rising into giddiness at the top of his throat, “how long have you known that?”

“In my defense,” Jon says, voice absolutely stripped of the suave baseline that ran through it a moment ago, “it was- I wasn’t _trying_ to Know that, I just- I was just looking at you and- it just happened.”

“And you remembered,” Martin adds, pinching Jon’s waist as he grins. “God, I thought _my_ crush on _you_ was embarrassing.”

“Shut up,” Jon says petulantly, and pushes him back toward the wall of the tub.

Trying not to giggle, Martin settles down again, allowing himself to slide more completely into the water. Jon moves with him and rests his head on his shoulder, just close enough to leave a kiss in his stubble.

Lazily, Jon’s hands sweep up Martin’s sides. Then Jon stills, and takes in a small, sharp breath.

Martin’s chest tightens. The warmth cultivated in his chest frosts over, leaving him rigid despite the heat lapping at his body.

Jon doesn’t speak. Slowly, he runs his fingers back down Martin’s sides, where the feeling is dulled. He doesn't do anything else, but Martin knows that he understands what the ridged, uniform scars are. They’re too regular, too layered, to be anything else. Jon makes a soft, wounded noise. Martin’s heart twists.

Then Jon breathes Martin’s name.

Martin doesn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Jon whispers. He continues to trace the raised lines, a vague and tickling sensation. “I don’t need to know.”

Martin feels a lump surface in his throat. He realises he dropped his hands at some point, and brings them around Jon, wrapping him close. “Thank you,” he whispers.

And that could be it. They could never discuss it again.

But Jon’s hands linger, and he kisses the fold of Martin’s neck, and god, Martin cannot remember ever feeling this safe.

“It was a hard year,” Martin says softly. “I didn’t… know how else to cope.”

Jon’s fingers continue their circuit along the texture. “It’s such a tender place to choose,” he murmurs.

Jesus. Martin takes a shaking breath. “It, um. I had to do it somewhere my mum wouldn’t see,” he explains. Jon makes a noise of concern, and kisses his jaw, his neck again. “It… um, it reduced the anxiety. I mean, made it worse in the long run, obviously, but it got me through some of those days. And I was... I think I was angry, too? But I was too guilty to admit it, so I- I took it out on myself.” It’s more than he’s ever said about it to anyone. Jon listens, and kisses him like something precious, and strokes the places that Martin, in his youth, hated enough to harm.

“Like… like I said,” Martin whispers, barely able to speak. “It was a hard year.”

Jon’s light sigh chills the damp surface of Martin’s skin. “I’m sorry, Martin.”

Martin’s throat thickens, and he smiles. “Uh- thanks, Jon. But really, it was a long time ago. I- um, like to think I’ve grown as a person? Learned how to actually feel my feelings,” he says this last part with a lilting little chuckle, surprising himself with how shaky he sounds.

“Mm. I’ve liked getting to see you angry,” Jon murmurs, and Martin laughs more fully.

“What?”

“Not at me,” Jon says defensively, lifting his head. “Well. Sometimes.” His cheek settles back against Martin. “Just- you deserve it. Vindication.”

Martin smiles. “Mm. Vindication for Martin. I like the sound of that.”

When Jon’s hands finally drift from the scars, they leave absolution in their wake.

Jon turns to rest his back on Martin’s front again, and groans as he stretches out his legs. Martin draws up his knees a bit, making more room. Jon rests his elbows in the wedges between Martin’s thighs and stomach, like he’s reclining in a very flustered lawn chair, and hums, “We should make a habit of this.”

The words hit Martin like a train. He sits there, feeling Jon rise and fall at the whim of Martin’s breaths, and feels for all the world like he’s been struck. Then he realises, and his chest hitches.

Jon’s talking like he’ll survive.

And oh, that hurts. Maybe it was only easy to avoid the possibility of Jon’s death when Jon, himself, kept alluding to it. But in the vacuum of that pessimism, in a moment where Jon seems vulnerable to happiness, all Martin can think is that it could all go wrong. And he… he’s not ready. It isn’t fair. Two weeks aren’t enough after two years of waiting.

He opens his mouth to say- well- something, he has no idea what- and then Jon’s head lolls against his chest. Martin suddenly registers the throaty, fluttering quality of his breath, and how still he’s gone. Fuck. They might have only hours left, and here’s Jon, asleep.

But Martin could never tear peace away from a man who’s had so little, so he holds him, and he loves him silently, and he tries to swallow his weeping so that he doesn’t wake him.

* * *

This time, they set up at the bathroom sink. Jon will need the mirror, to see past his own flesh.

Martin sterilises the area and the implements. The ice pick is light in his palm, almost unassuming. His hand tremors a bit as he crests the wicked point with an alcohol-soaked pad. He tries not to let guilt taint the relief he feels at knowing he won’t have to watch the dreadful tip sink into Jon’s face.

Jon is a cacophony of motion, dragging chairs in and out of the room, pacing, mumbling to himself.

“Hey,” Martin says, and stretches out his hands. Jon’s, when he gives them, are shaking. Desperately, Martin wants to reassure him. He wants to reassure _himself_. But there are no certainties here, and no words that can ease the tension woven tight through them. Instead, Martin says,

“I love you,”

because that’s all he has to offer. He hears Jon’s throat catch, and feels his narrow hands go weak before they clamp tight.

“I love you, too,” he whispers, a benediction. Then he runs his hands up Martin’s arms, and around his back, and presses his body in close. Martin hugs him back, and tries to keep his muscles tight, to not reveal that he’s shaking, too.

They kiss before they part, brief and chaste, but hard, hard enough that Martin feels the imprint of his teeth throbbing against the backs of his lips after Jon pulls away.

Jon’s palms slap onto the ceramic of the sink, and he heaves out a deep, shuddering sigh. Martin hovers behind him, ready to carry him to the bed when it’s done, or help hold him up if he tries to collapse before it’s over.

“Well,” Jon says, oddly clipped. Determined. Maybe a bit in denial. “Here goes.”

A deep breath. Martin tenses. Stillness. Then, a small sound of effort. A wheeze. A grunt. And finally, a gasp, as the wood and metal of the ice pick clatter into the basin of the sink, and Jon’s hands slam down on the rim of it.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

Martin hovers, resisting the urge to reach out. “Jon?”

“I… I can’t.”

“You… can’t?”

“It doesn’t want me to.”

“W- the eye?”

“Yes.” Jon exhales through his teeth. “I think- it- it can’t control me. I-I-I think I can still push through, but it’s making it very difficult. Having to fight against it, I-I’d have no precision. I’d probably lobotomise myself.” He laughs, dour and sharp.

It is good that Martin’s throat is closing up, because he feels a bit like he might be sick on the tile. “Oh, god,” he says.

Jon groans softly. “Martin, I… You know I wouldn’t ask if—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Martin says, and scrubs his hands up into his hair. “How am I supposed to do this?” He gasps, and exhales it as a laugh, frightened and shaking. “Jon, h-how the hell am I not going to _kill_ you?”

“You’ll…” Jon sighs. “You’ll have to go slow.”

“Christ. Fuck.”

“I’m quite used to pain, if- if that helps.”

Martin tightens his fingers into his hair and pulls. “It doesn’t!” he cries.

“I’m- I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t—” Martin groans, then drops his hands and lets himself fall back against the wall. “Okay. Shit, okay. How are we doing this?”

“I… I have a thought.”

Jon steps out for a moment and returns with one of the yarn-filled paper sacks. He rustles through it, then retrieves the fallen ice pick with a small scrape of metal on ceramic. He takes something else out of the box of first-aid, and then there’s a _snip_ of scissors. After a few seconds, he says, “How’s this?”

Martin clenches his jaw, but reaches out and accepts the ice pick. It is unchanged except for a short length of twine tied tightly, just shy of its midpoint.

“If you drive it in until that point meets the surface of my eye, the cornea, it- it should work.”

A twitch lashes through the full length of Martin’s arm, an impulse to throw the instrument in his hand as far as he possibly can. Instead, he tightens his grip on it, and wills his voice not to shake. “Okay. Uh- yeah. Fuck.” He tries to take a deep breath. Can’t. Gulps a few small ones instead. “Alright. Where are we doing this?”

They agree, to Martin’s great dismay, that it will be best to do this on the floor so that Martin can hold Jon down by kneeling over him. Martin’s top priority will be keeping Jon’s head still, so it makes sense to use his free hand for that, and let his legs stop the rest of Jon’s body thrashing. The image doesn’t sit well in his mind, but he won’t be able to fucking see it, will he, so what does it matter?

Hand in hand, Jon guides Martin to the floor. He crouches over Jon, legs caging his stomach, pinning his narrow arms to his sides. Jon twitches, and Martin feels ill again, wondering if any of that fear is of him.

“I hate this,” he bites, voice high and thin.

One of Jon’s hands brushes softly at the inside of his ankle. “I know. I-I’m so sorry.”

“You say that too much,” Martin sighs, and leans to press a kiss to Jon’s forehead. He lingers there, lips against clammy skin. “This isn't your fault. And I- I’m going to do my best for you, okay?”

“I trust you,” Jon whispers, and it’s just as well that Martin’s eyes are out of the picture, because the rush of tears would have rendered them useless, anyway.

He takes the folded belt and holds it to Jon’s mouth. Jon bites down. He feels a rush of air, Jon sighing deeply through his nose. Sitting up straight, Martin tightens his thighs against Jon’s sides, unsure if he feels relieved or awful about the ease with which he eliminates Jon’s ability to move.

Carefully, reverently, he lays one hand over Jon’s forehead, and gently pulls back his left eyelid. He feels the wet shift of muscle, the searching gaze, the final darting movements of those eyes that he fell in love with.

“Okay,” he says, and hates that his voice comes out so high and reedy. “Should I count?”

Jon makes a sound in the affirmative, so Martin sighs, and nods, and readies himself.

“O-okay. Okay. Three. Two. One.”

A measured stab, a terrible _pop_ , and Martin slowly, steadily, drives ice pick in.

Jon seizes beneath him, and is quiet for a horrible second before he screams into the gag. It takes everything in Martin to keep going, to hold him down as he shakes, to press his hand as hard as he can against the curve of Jon’s skull to neutralise the instinctive jerks.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers through the salt of his own tears, “I’m so sorry, Jon, I’m so sorry—”

It feels like hours, but it takes only a few seconds for the finger resting on the twine to brush the hot, gushing surface of the ruined eye. As soon as he’s sure it’s done, Martin yanks the pick back as fast as he can. Blood spatters his hand. Iron coats the back of his throat.

Jon’s scream dies to a whimper.

“Okay, almost over,” Martin says, like that could be any kind of comfort to the trembling man beneath him. He wants to give Jon a moment, but he knows it won’t help, so he sets his jaw and slides his steadying hand to Jon’s other temple. He pulls the eyelid back, lines up the shot, and counts three, two, one.

The second eye splits. Jon falls still.

It takes every lick of Martin’s self-control to finish the job, to fight the instinct to just get out and _stop hurting Jon_. But he does it. He devastates the eye. He rips the pick out and flings it away, hearing it clatter in a distant corner.

“Jon!?” His blood-sticky hand jumps to Jon’s neck. He presses up beneath his jaw, searching for—where-? _there_ —a pulse, erratic but present. “Oh, god, ohhh- oh- kay. Okay, fuck.” Without thinking, he cups Jon’s face in both hands, and lifts his head, dropping his own to lay their foreheads together. “Christ, _shit_ , thank fuck,” he whimpers, even as he knows that he needs to get to the radio, hail the emergency frequency. But Jon’s alive, he made it, it _worked_ —

Against Martin’s cheek, Jon blinks.

Martin goes still. Carefully, carefully, he lays Jon against the floor. Barely breathing, he runs his thumb through the slurry of blood and fluid and jelly, and he feels—

“ _What_.”

Jon’s left eye is whole and uninjured. The lids flutter, not quite opening, twitching as the gelatinous remnants of the eye that has been replaced ooze into his lashes. Dread solidifies like concrete in Martin’s throat. He doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t know if he can. Still, he has to know, and so he feels for Jon’s right eye.

He finds it, perfectly intact.

For a long, silent moment, Martin hangs where he is, cradling his boyfriend’s face in his hands, trying to figure out what the fuck to do. Eventually, he realises he should at least get off of him. His knees catch and creak as he gets up, but he manages to wobble only a bit as he stands. Unsure what else to do, he lifts Jon into his arms, aching at how right it feels to fold him to his chest in a bridal carry, and how wrong a time this is for it.

He lays Jon carefully on their bed. As far as he can tell—which isn’t as far as he’d like, given that he has only touch to go on—there isn’t any remaining injury. Just two eyes, thoroughly un-gouged. Still, he fetches the first-aid kit, because that seems like the next appropriate step. He wets some rags, too, and cleans away the blood and other unpleasantries, pausing every few minutes to check Jon’s pulse again. He gently strips Jon of his blood-tacky shirt, sponges away the grime and sweat left on his skin, and replaces it with one of his own jumpers, soft and thick.

Unsure what else to do, he toes off his shoes, sheds the jeans and coat that he’d put on in anticipation of going to hospital, and climbs into bed. He reclines against the headboard and draws Jon’s shoulders into his lap, head pillowed on his stomach, close enough to monitor his vitals. He tries not to think of the smell of disinfectant, or the glare of fluorescents, or a lifeless hand in his; this is not that. Jon is breathing. His heart is beating. This is not that.

Martin doesn’t mean to doze. But he’s exhausted, and wrapped in the scent of their blankets, and draped in the warmth of Jon’s body. So, he’s drifting when he hears the _crack_.

He lurches upright.

He tries to tell himself that it was the cabin settling. A branch snapping outside. Something falling and breaking in the kitchen, maybe. But Martin has heard bone break. It’s a distinct sound, the kind that he can’t forget, even for trying. And he knows the sound came from Jon.

He checks Jon’s eyes first. Still fluttering, a bit teary, but normal. He feels around his cheeks, his scalp, then his forehead—

Oh, jesus.

There is a crack in Jon’s forehead.

He feels it through the skin, a fissure in the bone no longer than two or three centimeters, but so deep and sharp that he has no doubt it pierces fully through the frontal bone. Before Martin can react beyond frozen shock, he feels something shift between his fingertips, and realises with an anguished, moaned, “ _No_ ,” that a hole is opening on Jon’s face.

There’s nothing he can do. He holds both hands to the tender place, feels with awful intimacy the stretch and strain and rip of the skin as it tears open and curls back from the edges of the hole. A wild reflex comes over him to try and pinch the flesh back together, but he knows it doesn’t work like that. These things never do. So he just- he feels it, bears witness, as the bones of the man he loves break under his shaking hands.

“Jon,” he keeps saying. “Jon, Jon, oh christ, please, Jon—”

The cracking stops. The hole’s creeping growth halts. Martin gasps in relief, then clenches his jaw, because how fucking stupid is he, there’s still a _hole_ in Jon’s _head_ , christ, he’s probably dead—

“Come on,” he snaps at himself. He can’t spiral now. He takes a deep breath, then returns his hands—when did he withdraw them to his chest?—to Jon’s face. The hole is ovular, opening over a warm, moist cavity that Martin dares not breach, ringed by bits of skin bunched above and below it, almost like—

—exactly like—

Martin stops breathing.

In the silence, a wet sound squelches from the cavity. Something convex and gelatinous rises, cold, against the tips of Martin’s fingers. He wants to pull away. He can’t move.

The eye blinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> -implied past aphobia/internalized aphobia: In the 1st section, Jon is hesitant to define his relationship with Martin because he's afraid that his asexuality will mess things up. He implies that when he's had this conversation with past partners, it didn't go well. This begins with _“I hate this damn conversation.”_ and ends with _“Okay, can I cut in, here?”_  
>  -internalized ableism: In the 4th section, Jon is prescribed a cane and is upset about it because he feels like he's too young for it. He and Martin discuss this. Begins with _Martin frowns. “What’s that?”_ and ends with _“How about this,” Jon sighs._  
>  -implied transphobia and dysphoria: In the 5th section, Martin misses several T shots due to the Jane Prentiss situation, and gets a period while staying in document storage. He's upset about this, but no dysphoric thoughts are discussed in detail. He accidentally outs himself to Jon and worries about how Jon will react, but Jon simply offers him painkillers. Begins with _Of course, about two hours after he had that thought,_ and ends with _“You look wretched.”_  
>  -non-explicit discussion of sexual boundaries: In the 6th section, Jon and Martin have a sincere but lighthearted conversation about their physical boundaries. Jon shares that he does not want to be touched sexually, and Martin agrees to this. Begins with _“That’s probably wise,” Jon murmurs._ and ends with _“Ah, I- I suppose you would have.”_  
>  -panic attack: In the 10th section, Jon is shown at the tail end of an hours-long panic attack. Begins at the start of the section and ends with _When Jon finally unfolds from Martin’s arms, it’s jerkily and with small gasps of pain._  
>  -discussion of past self-harm: In the 10th section, Jon finds a series of self-harm scars on Martin's sides. Martin talks about how he felt when he was self-harming in the past. Actual acts of self-harm are not discussed in any detail. Begins with _Jon doesn’t speak._ and ends with _“Like… like I said,”_  
>  -eye trauma: In the 11th section, Martin gouges Jon's eyes. Discussions of this begin with _“Yes.” Jon exhales through his teeth._ , and the actual act begins with _“O-okay. Okay. Three. Two. One.”_ Mentions of eye trauma continue through to the end of the chapter, as Jon's eyes heal/regenerate, and then he grows an additional third eye on his forehead.
> 
> \--
> 
> this is a canon divergence au but also an au where the average bathtub is comfortable for two grown men
> 
> ANYWAY, thank you all so much for your interest!!! we're closing in on the end!! :o there's a high probability that this will turn out to be 7 chapters instead of 6, but either way,,, the lads are In It now
> 
> comments restore my stamina bar!

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to @turningstringtothings on tumblr for helping my american ass anglicise this work <3
> 
> thank you for reading! you can find me @crit20lesbian on tumblr. i really appreciate comments if you're enjoying it so far!


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